Impromptu Bondmates
by Nemo the Everbeing
Summary: When a mission gone awry forces Spock and McCoy to become bendmates, all manner of hell breaks loose on their long and bumpy road to love.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Impromptu Bondmates  
  
Author: Nemo the Everbeing  
  
Rating: R: bondings, angst, violence, and all manner of craziness  
  
Feedback: Yes, please! I'm always interested in what other people think of my writing, and especially this, being that this is my fist foray into Trek Slash. At any rate, bring it on!  
  
Email: ParadigmShiftmchsi.com  
  
Author's Note: As I mentioned before, this is my first attempt at writing Spock/McCoy. I think, honestly, that I was hesitant to write this genre because it's so close to my heart. It was what got me into slash in the first place. Finally, though, I felt that I really just had to try my hand. So, here we go: my very first Spock/McCoy story. It's going to be long, drawn out, and, I hope, completely worth it and realistic.  
  
Disclaimer: Paramount owns them. I don't. Believe me, if I did own them, the DVD format would be considerably different. Damn them and the money they make me spend.

. . . . . . . . . .  
  
Chapter 1  
  
"Why, you green-blooded, pointy-eared, unfeeling bastard!"  
  
Commander Spock, who was renowned for his calm, was finding it more and more difficult not to snap at the irate human at his side. He had known from the off that the notion of placing them together as a diplomatic team was inadvisable, but it had not been his decision to make.  
  
Would that it were.  
  
"Doctor," he said evenly, "my parentage has already been established."  
  
McCoy stared at him in consternation. Then, he expelled his breath in an angry sigh. "Dammit, Spock, it was a euphemism!"  
  
"Pardon me, Doctor," Spock stated. "If you would not use words in a manner contrary to their definitions, then these problems wouldn't arise."  
  
"And if you wouldn't have been so goddamn heartless, I wouldn't have called you that in the first place!"  
  
"Yes, Doctor," the Vulcan sighed, "you would have."  
  
McCoy considered that. "Okay, maybe so." Spock arched an eyebrow at that admission, and McCoy flushed angrily. "But that doesn't change the fact that I have a genuine point." Then, even as his compact frame seemed to swell with fury, it sagged, and the doctor sat down heavily on the concrete divider that stood in the street next to them. "Jesus," he breathed, and Spock had the feeling that, had he not been Vulcan, he would not have heard the human, "I have seen more despicable and . . . inhumane things on this planet than I ever wanted to in my entire lifetime."  
  
Spock had to admit, if only to himself, that the doctor had been completely accurate in that statement. Harmegeiddon II was a forgotten Federation colony near the void between the Orion Spur and the Scorpio Arm of the galaxy. Founded over one and a half centuries before and last checked on about fifty years ago, the colony was rarely visited because of its isolationist policies. Still, when parties unknown had sent out a distress call to the Federation, Starfleet had immediately dispatched the Enterprise to investigate.  
  
And what they had found had been, as the good Doctor had phrased it, beyond the pale.  
  
Sometime during that half-century, a formerly peaceful society had turned into a seething mass of depravity and cruelty. The government was virtually non-existent, and the only people who kept any sense of order in the single city on the arid planet were the Mafias of organized crime. Between their districts of enforced terror were areas of pure chaos ruled by gangs who raped and plundered seemingly at will.  
  
Kirk had immediately been informed by the heads of the mafias that security forces would be killed, as would anyone armed. The only Federation representatives that could beam down and remain relatively unharmed would be a small diplomatic team.  
  
After deliberating, Kirk had decided the two of them would represent two poles of diplomacy. It was an intelligent idea in theory, allowing one to take over where to other failed, but the actual fact of their team was . . . less satisfactory.  
  
In the end, all they could do was concentrate on different areas and stay out of the other's way. While Spock discussed possible Federation measures with the most powerful drug cartels, McCoy organized a field hospital in the burned-out City Hall, drafting some of the multitudes of poor and starving people on the streets as volunteer nurses in exchange for care for their families, and Starfleet field rations to help sustain them.  
  
And now, after three days without the Enterprise (which had hastened to the nearest Starbase for a more official force to help stabilize the colony), Spock wondered at the fact that McCoy could still question his opposition to rampant displays of emotion. After everything he had seen? Every rape and assault victim he had treated?  
  
Deliberating how to best phrase what he had to say, what he'd wanted to say for three days, Spock seated himself next to the slumped human. "That is precisely the reason why I must approach this situation with logic instead of emotion," Spock explained.  
  
McCoy's bowed head raised slightly to give the Vulcan a narrow glare. "You want to explain that, Mr. Spock?"  
  
"Doctor, many of the crimes that were not only perpetrated, but condoned on this planet, organized rape and murder squads, for example, are born of emotion. Therefore, to approach such a situation in a similar manner would most likely prove to be—"  
  
"How dare you," McCoy spat, staring at Spock in shock and distaste. "How dare you try to pin this . . . brutality on human emotion? This is perversion! This is a malignant cancer on the spirit of this society!"  
  
"All of which is an apt description of the manifestation of vast amounts of negative human emotion," Spock pointed out.  
  
McCoy sprung to his feet, nearly quivering with renewed fury. His voice surprisingly quiet, the human growled, "So, you're saying there're no cases of insanity on Vulcan?"  
  
"Are you claiming that the state of this planet is a case of mass insanity?" Spock challenged simply.  
  
McCoy shook his head. "I'm saying that . . . human emotion is not inherently evil. This is wrong, I know, but I can't blame emotion. I've seen it as the cause of too much greatness and beauty to blame it for this situation."  
  
"Yet, you cannot deny its presence in this situation, nor the validity, however partial, of my statement," Spock pressed. If he was able to force the overly human doctor into such an admission, then perhaps he truly had accomplished something on this mission.  
  
It did not appear to have worked as planned. McCoy glared at him in something that might be termed disgust. "You want to sit there and condemn humanity, fine. Be my guest. I'm going to the field hospital, see if I can't do something . . . emotional."  
  
He spun on his heel. In an instant, Spock realized how starkly the doctor stood out in the grays and sullied browns that seemed to dominate this planet. His blue medical tunic, even dirtied and covered in various bodily fluids as it was, set him apart.  
  
Spock could never be sure how it was that he thought that, or why it was suddenly imperative, but it was.  
  
Then, it was utterly clear. Spock heard an ear-drum shattering crack so rarely perceived in the civilized galaxy, and surged to his feet. Time illogically seemed to slow as McCoy was spun smartly, a look of utter shock on his face and the blue of his uniform quickly being supplanted by a deep crimson spreading from his shoulder.  
  
"Spock," he gasped as the Vulcan caught him, eyes darting across the street, but couldn't determine where the shot had come from.  
  
He returned his attention to the injured human, and just in time, too, because McCoy's knees buckled. His blue eyes were dilated, and when Spock touched his wrist, he felt that his pulse was thready. Of course, that wasn't the only thing he felt.  
  
. . . Emotions, surging and confused. Too many, even for the human. Perceptions were off, sluggish. World moving too slow for logic, but too fast for comprehension. Something on the bullet . . .  
  
Spock felt a decided sense of urgency come over him. If the doctor had, indeed, been poisoned, then it was imperative that he be cared for immediately. "It seems that you will be going to the hospital, after all," he said, in a tone approaching humor.  
  
It was unfortunate that the doctor didn't recognize the rare event.

McCoy looked up at him, lips slightly parted and eyes full of confusion. "Why the hell's it foggy, Spock?" he demanded, his voice slurred and his accent so thick as to be nearly incomprehensible to the Vulcan.  
  
Spock didn't respond, but slung his free arm under McCoy's knees, sweeping him up.  
  
McCoy blinked, and then smiled crookedly. "Well, lookee there. I'm flying."  
  
Spock moved swiftly in the direction of the hospital, his steps quickening as he felt something warm and sticky soak through his own uniform.  
  
Then, the second shot rang out, and Spock staggered, his head whipping around to take in the bleeding hole in his leg. Then, he looked up to see a group of four people approaching them.  
  
The poison began to spread though his system at an alarming rate, and he quickly felt that he was moving through knee-deep sludge.  
  
McCoy, who was clinging to his shoulders tenaciously, and was, in fact, the only point in his world that currently felt real to him, looked worried, even through the haze of the poison. "Spock, were you aware that Harmegeiddon is the actual archaeological location known more infamously as Armageddon?"  
  
"How does that fact relate to our current situation, Doctor?" Sock queried, using all of his Vulcan concentration to focus on moving.  
  
"It's the end of the world," McCoy concluded softly. "Look, here come the Four Horsemen."  
  
Spock staggered, surprised that he hadn't even noticed the crack in the street. The two blue and black clad men tumbled to the ground in a tangle.  
  
As his body seized up, Spock could still understand their captors as they spoke.  
  
"I get that they're healthier than almost any other person we could sell, but seriously, they're Feds! How the hell do we sell Feds?"  
  
"Who says they're Feds? Change their clothes and no one's the wiser."  
  
"Yeah, did you happen to notice the points on those ears? How do we explain acquiring a Vulcan?"  
  
"It's not the Vulcan I'm worried about. It's the human. He's too old. I don't care how healthy he is. He's not appealing, not exceptional, how do we pawn him off?"  
  
Silence for several moments.  
  
"We sell them as an item."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Have you gone heat-crazy?"  
  
"We sell them as a pair. We say they're . . . what, bonded? Is that the word?"  
  
"Yeah. Bonded."  
  
"Yeah. We say they're bonded. You can't separate them without ruining the merchandise."  
  
"No buyer's gonna believe that a Vulcan bonded with a human!"  
  
"On this rock? They'll believe it. They'll believe it if it means owning a Vulcan."  
  
"We make it a status symbol?"  
  
"Definitely. The kind of people who can hawk up the cash for this can find some sort of use for the human."  
  
"I still think you're heat-crazy."  
  
"And I think you'd better shut up before you lose your share in the profits by being dead."  
  
"Listen, sorry. Didn't know you felt so strong about it."  
  
"Will you two both shut up? Let's get 'em out of here."  
  
This was, most assuredly, not a good situation to be in.

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.  
  
Next: Impromptu bondmates.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Impromptu Bondmates  
  
Author: Nemo the Everbeing  
  
Rating: R  
  
Author's Note: Warning: We're headed into some slashy territory here. Those who object, well, I'm not sure why you would even be reading this, but I advise you turn back now before your delicate sensibilities are hurt.  
  
Having said that, it is my goal to write a S/Mc slash tale in which both boys remain completely and utterly in character. I believe it can work. Let's see it in action!  
  
Disclaimer: They still belong to Paramount. Imagine that.

. . . .   
  
Chapter 2  
  
"Sweet Jesus," Leonard McCoy breathed, as he returned to consciousness and immediately wished he hadn't. He stared up at an unremarkable beige ceiling in what seemed to be a small closet-turned-cell. As feelings other than pain returned to his beleaguered body, he also noted that he seemed to be lying on some sort of hard cot.  
  
"I tend to go by Spock."  
  
McCoy raised his head from his hard pillow to glare at the impassive Vulcan. "Well, thank you for that," he drawled sarcastically. "My mistake."  
  
Spock inclined his head slightly.  
  
McCoy rolled his eyes and sighed. He attempted to sit up, but every muscle in his arm protested and gave out on him, causing him to yelp in pain before he could suppress it.  
  
Spock was at his side in an instant. "I might note you that you were shot in the shoulder. It wouldn't be advisable to use that arm."  
  
"Really? I would have never thought."  
  
Spock looked mildly exasperated. "I might also note that your use of sarcasm seems to become more frequent after such an attack."  
  
"You get shot, and tell me how your attitude fares."  
  
"I believe my attitude is completely unaffected."  
  
That got McCoy's attention. "What? Spock, were you shot?"  
  
"That is what I said, yes."  
  
"Dammit!" McCoy pushed himself up, biting back his pain as medical instincts kicked in.  
  
"Doctor, I am completely—"  
  
McCoy shot the Vulcan a glare. "When you become Chief Medical Officer of a starship, you can make that call. Until then, kindly shut up."  
  
Spock arched an eyebrow at him, but did not protest as McCoy carefully pulled aside the sticky material of Spock's pale beige pants. "Why'd they change our clothes?" he wondered aloud as he inspected the emerald wound.  
  
"I believe they were attempting to conceal our identities as Federation Officials."  
  
McCoy snorted, but continued to work, wishing he had anything more than his hands and a certain longing for the technology he so often denounced.  
  
"That is not the only misconception our former captors have imposed upon us, Doctor."  
  
McCoy allowed the slightest flicker of his eyes upward to indicate his continued interest in Spock's revelation as he tore off the hem of the Vulcan's pants to create a makeshift bandage. He almost found himself smiling as that action caused both of the impassive Vulcan's eyebrows to shoot up.  
  
"Was it necessary to use the hem of my pants for that?"  
  
"Most definitely," McCoy replied, feeling better simply because of the reaction he had provoked. "So, Spock, you were saying something about misconceptions?"  
  
"Indeed."  
  
"Are you going to tell me what those happen to be, or are we going for a round of twenty questions?"  
  
Spock stared at him quizzically. "Such a method of investigation seems highly illogical."  
  
"Spock," McCoy snapped, his smile fading, "if I didn't know you better, I would swear that you were stalling."  
  
Spock looked displeased at that allegation, but even so, his voice was unusually unsure as he stated, "They believe we are bondmates."  
  
McCoy stared at Spock for several moments of incomprehension before bursting into laughter.  
  
"I fail to perceive the humor in the situation, Doctor."  
  
"Oh, come on, Spock!" McCoy insisted. "Even you've got to see it!"  
  
"You find the concept of a human and Vulcan bonding humorous?" Spock demanded.  
  
"No," McCoy insisted, knowing the subject was a touchy one, but not being able to resist adding, "though Lord knows how your mother puts up with it. I find us humorous! Can you imagine a worse pair of bondmates, Spock? We'd kill one another."  
  
"Then you will not find our single option an appealing one."  
  
McCoy's laughter died. "What option?"  
  
"Our new owners will, no doubt, test the validity of their vendor's claim. If we aren't bondmates, I believe they will kill you."  
  
McCoy gaped like a landed fish, scarcely believing what he heard. "Spock, you can't possibly . . . I mean, it's insane! We can't possibly—"  
  
Even Spock looked deeply disturbed as he said, "It is the only logical option."  
  
"Spock, isn't this a binding sort of thing?"  
  
Spock glanced away. "Most often, yes. There have been cases of a newly- formed bond being broken, but those were instances of forced bondings and accidents. And they were severed very quickly after they were formed by a Priestess of sufficient ability."  
  
McCoy stared at the Vulcan. "In other words, we don't get that sort of out."  
  
The Vulcan drew himself up. "It is either that, or our captors discover the deception, and kill you. Logic dictates that I save your life."  
  
"Dammit, Spock, stop thinking logically and consider what you're committing yourself to! If I know my Vulcans, and I'd like to think I do, then this is a . . . sacred thing. A marriage. To tie yourself to a human, to one as emotional, as unprepared as me . . ."  
  
Spock was watching him carefully, and McCoy felt mortified as he realized that he was shaking. Clenching his jaw, McCoy forced his body into stillness. "Take it from one who knows, Spock, a loveless marriage for any reason is Hell, and if there's no way to divorce—"  
  
"It is an acceptable sacrifice," Spock intoned, moving closer.  
  
McCoy scrambled away, eyes wide.  
  
Spock regarded him with dawning comprehension. "Your motives for objecting are not entirely selfless," he concluded.  
  
"Ten points to the clever man with the pointy ears," the doctor snapped, feeling half-hysterical.  
  
"You are frightened of this," Spock almost asked.  
  
McCoy looked away. "It's no secret that I've never been comfortable with the prospect of someone nosing around in my head, and the thought of someone able to do it any time they choose, and access everything . . . Don't you see, Spock? It's the ultimate invasion. I couldn't get away from it. It'd drown me."  
  
"My mother fared well."  
  
"I'm not your mother."  
  
"In more ways than one way."  
  
McCoy felt a bark of half-terrified laugher burst in his throat and push out.  
  
Spock almost looked sympathetic as he approached McCoy again. "I do understand your concerns, Doctor McCoy, but the fact remains that the only other alternative is one that is categorically unacceptable." Hesitating, as if trying to convince himself of what he said, Spock knelt before McCoy. "We have no choice."  
  
McCoy shook his head, forcing his fears down. There was no way in hell he would be some shrinking violet in this. If Spock could weather it, then so could Leonard McCoy, no matter how it frightened him.  
  
Tightly, he nodded, and awkwardly copied Spock's hand positioning on the Vulcan's face, trying to achieve a level of clinical detachment that simply would not come.  
  
Spock began to speak, and McCoy dimly heard himself mimicking the words. He hoped he was pronouncing things correctly, but, dammit, he was a doctor, not a linguist.  
  
Suddenly, it felt like his world was imploding, and at the same time blowing outward infinitely. He was decently sure that he had mental flashes of memory, thoughts of a desert he had never seen, yet was completely sure that he had lived in for years. He saw faces, dark and austere, which were both completely alien and completely familiar.  
  
He felt like he was falling apart.  
  
'Doctor.' The voice broke in his head like a thunderclap. 'Doctor, you must control this.'  
  
"Oh, Christ," he dimly heard himself breath.  
  
'Doctor!'  
  
"Shut up!" he shouted. "I can hear you, damn it."  
  
'I believe it would be better if you attempted to work through this in your mind. Splitting your energies between the physical and mental is not an extremely intelligent action to take.'  
  
"I don't. Know. How."  
  
'Yes, you do.'  
  
'Dammit, Spock!' he burst out, suddenly realizing that he wasn't speaking aloud. It was enough to freeze McCoy's mental processes in panic. This wasn't right. He wasn't some sort of telepath. He was human! He talked with vocal cords and respiratory system, not his mind!  
  
'Normally, that would be a correct assumption, Doctor. However, it seems that a bonding alters your brain chemistry in some way sufficient to create a semi-telepathic ability.'  
  
'I don't want a semi-telepathic ability!'  
  
'Interesting. Many humans would leap at this chance as a beneficial opportunity.'  
  
'They're idiots. We're people, not computers! We're not wired to take in this sort of upgrade!'  
  
'I believe we have just proven that you can.'  
  
'Spock . . .' he managed, but felt so damn lost, and scared, and humiliated because he knew that Spock knew. The Vulcan could now look past all of his defenses and barriers and see the Southern gentleman in space who was completely unprepared for the vastness and alienness of it all. Before, he could hide behind a mask of gruffness, but here . . . of all the people who could have to see him so mentally naked, why did it have to be the oh-so-superior Vulcan? Any minute now, he was going to comment on it, gloat in his own unemotionally disdainful way.  
  
Any minute now . . .  
  
"Doctor," he heard dimly.  
  
"Doctor, it is over. Come back. Concentrate on my hands."  
  
Then, McCoy felt pressure. He concentrated on it, on finding its source, on fighting his way out of his own mind, which turned out to be much more labyrinthine than he had ever expected.  
  
Suddenly, it was dark, but the darkness was a more natural seeming one than that of his mind. It was one that he had seen every day of his life: the dark that existed behind his eyelids.  
  
Slowly, McCoy forced them open.  
  
And Spock's face swam into focus. "Doctor, are you all right?"  
  
McCoy stared at the Vulcan incredulously. "You can ask that with a straight face?" he demanded.  
  
"How else would I ask it?"  
  
The humor flickering under the comment hit McCoy like a punch under the jaw, physically knocking him back into a sprawl on the floor, even as Spock caught his head before he could crack it on the unforgiving surface. When the wave of foreign emotion ceased, McCoy sagged, muscles no longer willing to function.  
  
Spock was staring at him in concern.  
  
McCoy shook his head. "I can't do this," he gasped. "I don't have the first clue how. You feel the tiniest little thing, and it hits me like a ton of bricks. Your thoughts are in my head, and I can't get a word in edgewise. I can't turn the volume down and I can't switch the channel." He jerked at the wave of anxiety from Spock. "God dammit! I'm human! I have no mental training! I'm just . . . I just . . . Christ, Almighty. This is going to kill me."  
  
Then suddenly, the thoughts were gone.  
  
McCoy reeled now from their absence, feeling almost empty. Slowly, he raised his head, which had fallen back to lie against the ground sometime during the last attack.  
  
Spock seemed to be concentrating. "I am blocking myself from you, Doctor. I fear that you were correct in your claim that this was unwise."  
  
"You're admitting that you were wrong and I was right? Is the sky falling?" McCoy rasped.  
  
"I am admitting that I was never told of the extent that my mother had to prepare before she and my father bonded. She mentioned that she had what she called 'extensive training', but I assumed . . ."  
  
"You assumed that a few necessary mind melds here and there were good enough or us?"  
  
"Essentially," Spock admitted, voice tight with the embarrassment of not considering all possible options.  
  
McCoy forced his body to rise again, standing on unsteady legs. "So, I suppose the question now is how fast you can get me trained up. I mean, you can't just block indefinitely. If they test us, we're going to have to be able to talk telepathically without landing me on the floor."  
  
"Quite."  
  
McCoy waited for a suggestion from the Vulcan who usually possessed all the answers. "Well?" he prompted after several seconds passed.  
  
"What?"  
  
McCoy blew out his breath in utter exasperation. "You can't expect me to come up with the ideas in this situation, Spock! I'm the human here, as you're so fond of noting. I don't have the first clue about how we deal with this."  
  
"Having never done this before, I am also at a loss," Spock concluded calmly.  
  
The doctor gaped at him. "So, you're saying that there's nothing we can do, and I'll die anyway when they test us, only I'll die with you in my head quoting me my odds."  
  
"I had not actually thought of doing that."  
  
McCoy rubbed his temple. "Spock, you were raised on Vulcan. You have to have known something about this, something to help us out here." He wracked his brain. "What do normal Vulcan couples do?" he asked after a thought.  
  
"I would not know."  
  
"What, you people don't talk? No one gave you the birds and the bees?"  
  
Spock raised his infamous eyebrow. "Why would one give me Terran fauna and insects?"  
  
McCoy fought his quickly flagging temper. "Spock, you just bonded with me, you should know my phraseology now!"  
  
"Doctor, in my attempts to protect you from my mind, I am blocking your thoughts from mine, as well as the other way around. I know nothing more of you than the glimpses and impressions I received during the initial bonding."  
  
McCoy sighed. "What I meant is to ask is if your daddy ever sat you down and explained the facts of your sexual functions to you?"  
  
Even through the block, McCoy felt Spock's shock hit him. "Is that a common practice on Earth?" he queried. "That seems rather . . . unseemly."  
  
McCoy smiled slightly at Spock's disgust. "How else are you going to find these things out unless someone you trust gets you in the know?"  
  
"Textbooks, one would assume."  
  
McCoy snorted. Typical Vulcan answer. "Please. Human children barely read textbooks when they have to, let alone voluntarily."  
  
Spock looked both faintly disparaging and pensive. "So, you are suggesting that the solution to our problem is possibly sexual in nature?"  
  
McCoy blanched, realizing that, yes, that was what it sounded like. "No! I mean . . . I thought . . . some kind of mental . . . dammit, Spock, I didn't mean it like that!"  
  
"Actually, the notion does have some theoretical merit."  
  
"Oh . . . hell, no."  
  
Spock grimaced slightly, that simple look conveying his thorough dislike of the entire situation. "It appears that we must put this theory to the test before eliminating it from our list of possibilities."  
  
With that, Spock placed a hand on McCoy's shoulder.  
  
McCoy glanced at the appendage in surprise. "What do you think you're—?"  
  
Spock, with a look of resigned distaste on his face, leaned in and pressed his lips to McCoy's before the human could finish his squawk of protest.  
  
Again, the wave of thoughts and images hit McCoy, but this time he had the oddest feeling that he could breathe underwater.  
  
It became a tide which, once one simply let go and went with it, was amazingly intense. It was difficult to even comprehend, but an entire lifetime of thoughts and repressed emotions washed over him, and then began to intertwine with his own. Landscapes began to merge as grass grew in a desert and a swamp dried and cracked. Animals he both knew and didn't slipped in and around the corners of his mindscape, and people flitted through, speaking on topics he both understood and didn't.  
  
And somehow, it all made a strange sort of sense.  
  
Inch by inch, McCoy broke the surface and reemerged into the oxygen of the real world. Things solidified and flowed back into their proper places . . .  
  
And Leonard McCoy found himself rather hopelessly entangled in Spock's arms, kissing him with a desperation that seemed like it should have died out with his divorce.  
  
Both men realized the position they had put themselves in and pulled away, straightening their clothing fussily. McCoy was quite sure his entire face had gone bright red in embarrassment, while Spock seemed to be actually working to regain that cool efficiency he usually possessed so effortlessly.  
  
When he was finally able to speak, McCoy found himself blurting out the first thing that came to mind, which happened to be: "Fascinating."  
  
Spock looked up at him sharply.  
  
Even McCoy was a bit surprised at the suddenness with which that word had sprung into being in his head.  
  
And how natural it seemed to use it.  
  
"It seems to have worked," Spock noted.  
  
"You noticed that, too, huh?" McCoy asked ruefully.  
  
Spock eyed him and said, "I believe we should attempt to fully reopen the link now."  
  
McCoy nodded, understanding that time was of the essence. Spock closed his eyes and then breathed out long and slow.  
  
Once again, the doctor felt that the emotions and thoughts bubbling about, trapped in Spock's mind, were suddenly unleashed upon him. Still, after the initial migraine passed in about ten seconds, he felt his mind working to accommodate the new data. Slowly, he opened his squeezed-closed eyes, and took in Spock's concerned face, and how he was not looking at it from a horizontal position.  
  
"Well, what do you know?" McCoy drawled. "I'm still on my feet."  
  
"I would deem that an improvement."  
  
"I would agree."  
  
Spock grimaced slightly as he perched on their single cot. "It appears, then, that your supposition, however unintentional, is correct. We must continue this regimen of physical contact if we wish to make this bond fully compatible with your system."  
  
"Wonderful," grumbled McCoy, "I finally get another shot at marriage, and it's with the one person in this universe less romantic than my ex-wife."  
  
Still, as McCoy sat down on the cot next to his dispassionate Vulcan, he noted that he did so close enough so that their knees bumped.  
  
He simply chalked it up to the bonding finally driving him out of his ever- loving mind.

. . . . .

. . . .

. . .

. .

.

Next: Of human (and not-so-human) bondage. 


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Impromptu Bondmates  
  
Author: Nemo the Everbeing  
  
Rating: R  
  
Author's Note: I enjoy the notion that a human wouldn't react well to a Vulcan bonding, which would normally require psyonic abilities. So, don't expect your normal easy bonding. This one is going to be a very bumpy ride.  
  
Disclaimer: Gene Roddenberry dreamed them. Desilu made them. Paramount owns them. I just pay homage in my own, quirky way.

. . . . . . .

Chapter 3  
  
Sometime during the night, after attempting numerous sleeping arrangements with just the one cot, and McCoy unwilling to allow the recently injured Vulcan to sleep on the floor as he had suggested, both were forced to resign themselves to the fact that they needed to share the bunk.  
  
It was not an easy task. While neither could be called large, they were still of average size for two grown men of their relative species, and trying to fit themselves on the same twin-sized cot proved to be a definite logistical challenge.  
  
Spock was quite certain that he'd fallen asleep entirely separated from the human. In spite of his advocacy of physical contact to help McCoy recover from their recent bonding, he could not bring himself to fall asleep in such a precarious position.  
  
Honestly speaking, he had no more wish to fully integrate himself with the doctor than he knew McCoy had to do so with him. The idea that his logic might very well be compromised by this human's mind was virtually unacceptable to him, and, while he thought that he could handle any difficulties that might arise while he was conscious, he did not want to know what might happen should the link be reestablished in his sleep.  
  
So, they tried to go to sleep with their backs to one another, not consenting to any more contact than that.  
  
It did not seem to have worked out as planned.  
  
First came the dream, the quality of which Spock had been completely unprepared for. It was not that Vulcans did not dream, it was simply that Vulcan dreams were routine. They were in no way the violent tapestry that painted itself in Spock's stunned mind:  
  
He was on Vulcan, he was certain, but things were not as they should be. The cities were collapsed in what seemed to be tremendous violence. There were fires, and Vulcans milling about in a decidedly illogical manner. He moved through them, feeling, oddly enough, like he had a very good reason for being where he was. He moved purposefully into one of the buildings, and staggered. Could this possibly be his hospital?  
  
There was so much death. How could he prevent that which was so much larger than he? Still, in a motion that Spock could not explain, he pushed up his sleeves and moved about the small, makeshift hospital.  
  
He knew, without knowing how, that this was the children's ward, and he was the doctor in charge of all of this. It was his job to save all these little lives.  
  
And he went to work, doing things he shouldn't have the knowledge to do, working at a pace that could only be described as frantic, as if he was affected by some sort of emotion.  
  
Which, in all honesty, he was. He was desperate, and despairing of his race. How could we possibly have done this to ourselves? he mentally demanded. For all our so-called civilization, how can we be so advanced if we still have this within us?  
  
Then, the blast hit. Spock was thrown against a wall, dizziness and nausea sweeping over him in equal parts. A section of the roof collapsed before his disbelieving eyes. He heard the children screaming. Shaking his head and looking up, he saw half of the room completely decimated, small bodies broken and trapped under the rubble.  
  
And Spock began to weep.  
  
Then, abruptly, he awoke. When Spock opened his eyes, he found that, sometime during the night, they had both managed to turn themselves over, and now the Vulcan was unable to move without waking the doctor, as they had become so entangled.  
  
So, the most logical course of action would be to wake McCoy and work to extract themselves as a mutual effort.  
  
"Doctor," he said putting gentle pressure on the human's back where his hands had come to rest.  
  
McCoy twitched, winding his arms more securely around Spock and burying his head in the Vulcan's chest. "Jesus," he muttered, obviously still asleep, "there's too much damage. Have to get everybody out."  
  
Spock raised his eyebrows as he realized the implications of that statement and repeated his efforts. "Doctor," he called again, more firmly and with a bit more volume.  
  
It seemed to work. McCoy's heart rate, very apparent to Spock in such close proximity, sped up as he came out of his torpor, and the man's blue eyes opened, blinking up at Spock in bafflement. That was almost immediately replaced by shock. "Christ!" he exclaimed.  
  
"Indeed," Spock concurred, "I believe we were sharing the same dream."  
  
McCoy shook his head, seeming to try to clear it. "The link?"  
  
Spock searched his mind, which immediately responded in echoes. "Established, on some basic level," Spock informed his human bondmate, "and more than likely responsible for the occurrence."  
  
McCoy looked away. "That would explain everyone being Vulcan."  
  
Spock understood immediately. "They were actually human."  
  
McCoy glanced at him once more, looking slightly haunted. "Yeah. The Chara IV colony. They were . . . well, it was sort of like the situation here. Various factions fought each other, made bombs. I was doing my Starfleet residency when they sent me there to work in the relief effort." He snorted. "Nothing on Earth prepares you for that sort of thing."  
  
"You were assigned to the children's ward."  
  
McCoy nodded. "It nearly killed me every time one of them died, but I was saving a lot of them, too, so everything . . . I could get through it. I could ignore the fact that every time I looked at one of those kids, I saw my own daughter. After the collapse, though . . . they reassigned me." He shook his head. "I had even pretty much gotten over the nightmares until Jim sent us to this hellhole."  
  
McCoy glared at the ceiling, seeking to mask his feelings in his universal gruff façade. Spock was fascinated to realize that, despite the human's staunch advocacy of the expression of emotions, he seemed to cover them almost as well as a Vulcan, only letting certain, obviously more acceptable variety show.  
  
Finding no other alternative, he asked mentally, 'Why is it that you express anger, yet will not allow yourself to display remorse?'  
  
McCoy blinked at him, then scowled, replying in kind, 'You were in my head the entire time, weren't you?'  
  
'As you were in mine, had you taken the time to notice.'  
  
McCoy rolled his eyes, still holding that mask of anger.  
  
'Shall I repeat the question, Doctor?'  
  
McCoy sighed, shifting slightly, and reminding Spock that they were still tangled together on the narrow cot. "Remorse is weak," the doctor stated aloud. "That's not something I can afford myself right now."  
  
"Probably an intelligent choice," a voice broke in to their exchange.  
  
Two heads both looked up to the door, which now stood open. Standing there was a tall, statuesque woman with graceful, pointed ears, and an icy smile.  
  
Spock arched an eyebrow, ignoring the rather awkward position she had found them in. "I was not aware that the Romulans had ventured this far into Federation territory."  
  
"Then there are many things of which you are not aware," she replied smoothly. "I am Telara, Intelligence Officer of the Romulan starship Kaleh. I've been an acquisition here longer than anyone."  
  
"A slave, you mean," McCoy corrected her.  
  
Telara shrugged. "Call it what you will. It's my job to teach you enough to keep you in line." She motioned, a sneer curling her lips, and aimed directly at Spock. "Now, get up. You can hold one another later."  
  
When she had turned away, McCoy glanced at Spock and gave him a quick, amused grin. "Never a moment to ourselves. Some honeymoon, huh?"  
  
"Honeymoon, Doctor?"  
  
McCoy gave him a sharp glance. 'Well, we are technically newlyweds,' he thought before they let go of one another and severed the bond. 'And it's Leonard, Spock! I think they might question this whole bond thing if you keep calling me Doctor.'  
  
Spock considered that, released McCoy's hand, and then nodded his agreement. "It is, indeed, not the ideal honeymoon . . . Leonard."  
  
McCoy smiled at him. 'Once again, with feeling.'  
  
'I do not express feeling. You, more than most, should know that.'  
  
McCoy rolled his eyes. 'Perfect. I just married myself a man who thinks that the Enterprise computer's the ideal role model.'  
  
Spock arched an eyebrow at his bondmate, wondering at his propensity for hyperbole. Then, he rose, tested his injured leg, and then crossed to stand next to the Romulan woman with only a slight limp, who looked him over coldly.

"Mr. Spock, the man who has helped destroy numerous Romulan ships and killed dozens of loyal citizens," she stated. "I assumed that you would be taller."  
  
His other eyebrow joined the first. "I was unaware that our status as Federation representatives was known here."  
  
She snorted. "The humans who bought you know nothing beyond what they see with their own eyes. Whether or not they know what value you truly hold makes no difference to me." Her teeth gleamed in a smile. "I, on the other hand, am Romulan. I keep my eyes and ears open, and knew who you were the instant I saw them bring you in."  
  
"Well, I'm flattered," McCoy drawled.  
  
Telara either didn't catch his sarcasm, or deliberately ignored it. Spock, observing her closely, believed the latter to be the case, as she replied, "You should be. Few humans, indeed, warrant my attention. However, your very humanity is, in this case, what intrigues."  
  
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" McCoy demanded.  
  
"A Vulcan bonded with you, and as pathetic as the race is, they are far superior to humans. So, Doctor McCoy, tell me: what it is about you that has merited such interest from an otherwise greater being?"  
  
McCoy snorted. "Guess it was just my lucky day," he groused.  
  
She arched an eyebrow at the exact same time as Spock. "Indeed," she murmured, and then turned away from them. "We'll be late. Move, Acquisitions."  
  
Spock rose, glancing back to make sure that McCoy followed.  
  
"This just keeps on getting better and better," the human groused.  
  
Spock decided that McCoy was still basically intact if he could still grouse. It was when he stopped that Spock should become concerned for his bondmate.  
  
They followed Telara out into a larger, plush room. In this stripped down, broken world, seeing such luxury seemed odd, not to mention inappropriate.  
  
And there, sitting, seeming in deep conversation, were two new surprises. One was an alien the likes of which Spock had never seen. He had gray, slightly scaled skin, with prominent ridges on his forehead and along the sides of his wide neck.  
  
The other was a Klingon.  
  
"And I say again," McCoy breathed, eyes widening.  
  
The Klingon stood, drawing lips back from his teeth in a grimace. "As if there weren't enough humans here already."  
  
Telara smiled at him. "Very few, I suspect, who are bonded to Vulcans."  
  
The other alien rose, crossing the room to circle Spock with a serpentine grace. "Vulcan?" he queried, shooting a look at Telara out of eyes the color of ice. "He looks as if he were your species."  
  
She snorted.  
  
Spock arched an eyebrow. "We belong to sister races. However, she is Romulan, while I am Vulcan."  
  
The alien seemed to have no problem invading Spock's space as he peered closely. "Physiological differences?"  
  
"More a matter of philosophy," McCoy corrected. "Vulcans repress their emotions. Romulans don't seem to have that problem."  
  
"We prefer the word 'control' to 'repress'," Spock stated. "It has less of a loaded meaning."  
  
Brilliant white teeth flashed as the alien smiled. "Of course," he said, seeming thrilled. "At last, a man who knows the value of words. Having conversations with this lot has been like carving a statue with a vole's tail."  
  
Even McCoy looked lost after that choice of phrasing.  
  
The alien, seeming to realize he had lost the understanding of his companions, shrugged. "It's been a difficult time."  
  
"Especially for a man who likes to talk so much," spat the Klingon.  
  
Telara turned to Spock and McCoy, an ironic eyebrow arched. "Gentlemen, may I present the other two acquisitions."  
  
The Klingon nodded tersely. "I am Kataq, helmsman of the Batl'h."  
  
"And I," the alien said, bowing slightly from the waist, "am Gessad, xenobiologist on the Daltav'u, of the Cardassian Deep Space Exploratory Fund."  
  
"Cardassian?" McCoy asked. "I don't know as I've heard of that species before, and I know I haven't seen anything remotely like you."  
  
Gessad's face broke into a smile. "Nor are you likely to. I am all that's left of my crew, and my home has not yet even been reached by your people."  
  
"What brought you out so far?"  
  
Gessad's smile faded. "Famine," he replied. "We went out looking for possible avenues of expansion." He shrugged. "We're not a people disposed to empire building, but we must do what we must to survive."  
  
"As I have tried to tell you," Kataq stated, "empire building is nothing to be ashamed of. To expand is a natural state, and there is much honor to be found in it."  
  
"Yes, well, that remains to be seen," Gessad replied noncommittally.  
  
McCoy was immediately drawn to his fellow scientist, Spock noted, as well as the convivial and non-threatening appearance the Cardassian put forth. Spock had the suspicion that the façade was just that, but, being that he had no evidence, had no reason to warn the doctor away. He listened as they began questioning one another on relative biology, watching McCoy's face seem to sharpen in interest as Gessad explained that his people were renowned architects and craftsmen, raised to have an appreciation of arts and life. Their minds, he expounded, were radically different from any other race Gessad had yet encountered, having a completely different sense of the passage of time, as well as being drawn to good conversation and games of strategy.  
  
In turn, McCoy tried to explain human life as best he could to the Cardassian, who listened as well as he spoke.  
  
"I would watch out, if I were you," Telara said softly, standing next to Spock. "Gessad is an extremely charming man, but I trust him about as far as your bondmate could throw him."  
  
"You are saying that he is dangerous?"  
  
"I'm saying nothing of the sort. I'm only noting that out of the five slave traders who promised to deliver him to our owners, only two arrived." She shot Spock a superior look. "Perhaps xenobiologists perform different functions on Cardassian ships than we are used to."  
  
Spock did not respond, but stored the information away for future reference, determining that it would be necessary to keep a closer watch on the strange, friendly alien from now on.  
  
Suddenly, the doors opened, and a veritable entourage of humans filed in. Spock felt Telara go tense next to him, and felt McCoy's anger from across the room as the man in the lead of the column of people looked over them like prize livestock, or a particularly interesting museum display.  
  
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "these are my newest acquisitions: a Vulcan, and his human bondmate."  
  
One of the other men peered at them. "Is that uncommon?"  
  
"Very," a woman draped in animal skins and silk explained. "They are a private sort of people, and don't generally enjoy the company of our species. Really very interesting to see one so close."  
  
Spock raised an eyebrow at that.  
  
"And the best part," McCoy drawled, crossing his arms over his chest, "is that they actually understand every word you say. So, talking about them in the third person isn't actually as polite as you might think."  
  
Telara stiffened at Spock's side, even as the leader of the human group glanced at a bracelet he wore, then pressed one of the jeweled buttons adorning it.  
  
McCoy immediately doubled over, choking out a colorful expletive. However, when no more were forthcoming, Spock became seriously worried and crossed to the human's side in a few steps.  
  
The thing he noticed immediately upon arrival was that McCoy's mouth was open, and he was making strange, soft wheezing noises. Spock reached out, placing a hand on the man's back, immediately assailed by terror and a desperate need for oxygen.  
  
He turned his gaze sharply to the man he had interpreted as their owner. "I request that you desist."  
  
The man smiled, but didn't do a thing. McCoy dropped to his knees.  
  
Spock spoke quickly. "This man is a valuable acquisition. To destroy that which you bought for such a petty reason is illogical."  
  
The man cocked his head, then pressed the button again.  
  
McCoy drew in a deep, gasping breath.  
  
The man turned to the rest of the group. "I'm terribly sorry you had to witness that, but without discipline, there would be chaos."  
  
The group tittered, and followed him out of the room.  
  
"Leonard," Spock said when they had left. "Are you—?"  
  
"No." McCoy pulled himself to his feet and almost collapsed before Spock caught him and guided him to a chair. "Jesus Christ, I feel like I've been socked in the gut."  
  
Gessad joined them. "Actually, that's essentially correct. They've developed a device which targets the diaphragm."  
  
McCoy blinked up at the Cardassian. "How the hell do you know that?"  
  
Gessad gave him a smile that suddenly seemed chill. "Information is available to us, we just have to know where and how to look." Then, just as quickly, his demeanor became affable and harmless once more. "At any rate, this device sends electrical impulses to your diaphragm that contracts it, and then doesn't allow it to relax."  
  
"Long-distance suffocation," Telara expounded. "It works on all of us."  
  
"But not quite as well on me," Kataq added. "I can remain active for several minutes after the initial contraction, so long as I do not attempt to speak."  
  
Gessad rolled his eyes, "Which never seems to be a difficulty."  
  
Kataq glared at the Cardassian scientist. "I do not waste time on words that can be heard and used against me by my enemies."  
  
"Gentlemen," Telara broke in, "before we engage in another wordy debate," she ignored Kataq's glare, "I might point out that we have a problem, here."  
  
Kataq snorted. "So the humans are targeting one of their own. I do not feel overly concerned."  
  
McCoy glowered. "Well, I damn well do."  
  
Spock looked at Telara. "You believe they will continue to pursue him?"  
  
She shrugged. "He ruined one of Amos' tours. Amos is not the type to forget that."  
  
"Why should we care?" demanded Kataq.  
  
"Because, to watch him more closely, they'll increase surveillance on all of us," Gessad murmured, hissing slightly. "It will interfere, and even you should understand the potential ramifications of that."  
  
Kataq turned furious eyes on a very baffled McCoy. "So, why don't we kill him now and be done with it?"  
  
"That, too, would draw attention," Spock pointed out.  
  
Telara glanced at him appraisingly, and Spock met her stare with a steady resolve. "Then you've determined what we plan to do already?"  
  
"It is only logical."  
  
She nodded, her eyes fixing on McCoy. "Since you know, you should give me a single good reason why I shouldn't do what Kataq suggests. It would create a stir momentarily, of course, but nothing that won't settle down. So, Vulcan, dazzle me with your logic."  
  
"He is human," Spock stated. "On this planet, that is his finest asset."  
  
"If you all are talking about what I think you're talking about, you'll need a beard," McCoy agreed.  
  
Four equally confused glances turned on the human.  
  
McCoy sighed. "You're going to need some sort of cover."  
  
"We shall simply have to keep him out of Amos' notice from here on out," Gessad concluded.  
  
"You are so quick to jump to his defense?" Kataq demanded.  
  
"His life gives me an advantage I didn't have before," Gessad stated, drawing himself up. "It's a good enough reason for me."  
  
"I say he is human, and cannot be trusted. He will betray us to his own species."  
  
"I am his bondmate, and say he will not," Spock stated, in that unequivocal tone that did not brook any type of dissention.  
  
McCoy pushed himself to his feet, barely even swaying, Spock noted with the barest touch of pride. "I may be human, but I've got no love for this bunch," he told them all. "If you don't want to trust me personally, be my guest, but trust that I want off this rock, and that I'll do what it takes to get us there."  
  
Telara inclined her head. "Very well. We let you live," she held up a hand to cut off Kataq's growl of protest, "for now. But, like any of us," she informed him, "should you show the slightest sign of betrayal, we will kill you."  
  
"Sounds fair," McCoy told her.  
  
The noise at the door returned, softer than before, and all the acquisitions fell silent. In came the man Spock now knew was called Amos, who stared at them in rancor. "You now know the punishment for disobedience," he snapped. "I do not tolerate acquisitions speaking unless spoken to, is that clear?"  
  
Nods from the group, though Spock had to take McCoy's shoulder in his hand and mentally nudge the man before he did so.  
  
"Now," Amos said brusquely, eyes lighting on McCoy, "we will test the validity of your bonding. If the two of you pass the test, we'll find you some clothes more befitting two of my acquisitions, and heal what remains of the wounds you acquired upon capture."  
  
Spock had noticed the fine quality of the garments adorning his fellow captives, but when he looked more closely, he realized that they were, in fact, wearing what he could only assume were traditional clothing of their individual race.  
  
"If you do not pass the test," Amos intoned, "well, there really won't be any concern for your clothes, then."  
  
He turned and led the way out of the room, gesturing imperiously for the small entourage to follow. Spock noted that there were no guards accompanying them, but knew from the previous attack on Dr. McCoy that they were not necessary.  
  
Surreptitiously, he reached out and brushed the human doctor's hand with his own. 'Are you prepared?' he queried.  
  
'Probably would be more so if I knew what we were in for,' McCoy thought wryly back at him.  
  
'We shall pass,' Spock insisted.  
  
'Spock, I'm inside your head. If you're trying to be brave on my account, don't bother. I see right through you.'  
  
Spock raised an eyebrow, which caused McCoy to fight a smile as it tugged at the corners of his mouth.  
  
Spock felt confident in their abilities. It was definitely true that their bond was still very unstable, but they were capable men, and they had weathered many more difficult trials than this. Logic dictated that they must have some sort of basis between the two of them for whatever this man may have devised. The statistics were very simply in their favor.  
  
Amos spoke up as they reached another door. "I'll have you know that I am aware of your status as Federation agents. It was one of the reasons I purchased you." He looked at Spock. "You hadn't met with me when you were taken."  
  
Spock mentally reviewed the list of mafia leaders he was to meet with, and then stated, "Amos Chamberlain."  
  
"The very one. At any rate, before I even bought you I was able to examine what records I was given of you both very carefully. You will, then, understand why I selected this particular test."  
  
With that, he opened the door and, before Spock could stop him, motioned. Immediately, two large men emerged from the shadows of the room, took hold of Dr. McCoy, and pulled him in.  
  
Spock followed swiftly, but not nearly enough so. The two men grasped his bondmate, and, with a mighty heave, flung him out, and into the pool inside this particular space.  
  
McCoy hit the water gracelessly, immediately submerging before coming back up, choking and flailing.  
  
Spock did not need to ask Amos what he had gleaned from the doctor's records. He knew.  
  
Leonard McCoy could not swim.  
  
"Save him, Mr. Spock," Amos ordered, "without touching him."

. . . . .

. . . .

. . .

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Next: Salvation, Damnation, and everything in between. 


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Impromptu Bondmates  
  
Author: Nemo the Everbeing  
  
Rating: R  
  
Feedback: Send it to ParadigmShiftmchsi.com  
  
Author's Note: The notion that McCoy can't swim, and is, in fact, scared of the water, isn't mine, nor is it strictly canon. It was introduced in the Star Trek novel "Ice Trap", and worked well as a plot point for this story.  
  
Disclaimer: They belong to the mountain, and to Corporate America. NASA probably owns a little of them, too. Being that I don't fit under any of these categories, how much, precisely, do you think I own?

. . . . . . . .

Chapter 4  
  
Spock stared at the man hard, trying to concentrate as the splashing and spluttering from the water grew more and more frantic. "I cannot speak to him without touching him. Our bond is still relatively new."  
  
Amos watched him calmly. "I suggest you learn quickly, because I don't imagine he'll stay above the water much longer."  
  
Spock turned, gazing at the struggling human. He knew that time was of the essence, yet also knew what a danger an immediate attempt at the full bond could pose.  
  
Of course, there were no other logical alternatives he could think of, and the danger of inaction was for more clear and present than the danger to McCoy's mind.  
  
Spock turned to gaze at the floundering form of his bondmate. Hoping that McCoy would understand the necessity of this action, Spock opened all of his carefully erected mental barriers, concentrating on that summer almost twenty years ago on Earth. The summer his mother taught him to . . .  
  
'Swim,' he urged.

. . . . . . . .  
  
It was dark and wet, and Leonard McCoy was absolutely certain that he was going to die. He had nightmares about drowning, but the reality was horribly different. There was no control, and no way out. It seemed that the more he struggled, the worse off he was, and it became clear that he was in desperate need of air.  
  
'Swim,' a voice urged in his head, but in his state, he couldn't think who it was. He opened his mouth to respond, only to find it flooded with water. He gasped in horror, and the water started to fill his lungs. He flailed his arms, one of which protested fiercely as his shoulder wound reopened and started staining the water around him red.  
  
'OhGodsocoldsowetcan'tbreathe!'  
  
'Doctor!'  
  
There were no thoughts to describe what it felt like to die, but that didn't mean his mind wasn't trying to come up with them. 'GodpleasenonotlikethisIdon'twanttodie!'  
  
'LEONARD!'  
  
'Spock!' His bondmate, the one man who could save him, if anyone could. Desperately, he reached out physically and mentally, praying for salvation.  
  
And it hit him, knocking him down even deeper. Too many memories to be pertinent, but he knew that somewhere in this delicately ordered chaos there were things he had to know. Something about a summer. Something McCoy, no, Spock had learned one summer . . .  
  
And then, he wasn't honestly sure who the hell he was, but he knew that he should be kicking. With his lungs screaming, and brownish blues and greens swirling in front of his wide eyes, he scissored his legs, breaking the surface. It took all of his flagging strength to kick his way to shore, even with his knowledge. His movements were sluggish and his muscles completely unused to reacting in such a way. He still seemed to be breathing in more water than air, and that was really beginning to worry him.  
  
The bank seemed too far, but he had to get there. There was no way around that. Had to reach . . .  
  
And then there were hands grasping and pulling at him, and he was being lifted out of the small indoor pond. Gently, the hands set him down on the floor.  
  
Lord, the ground had never felt so good. Of course, neither had coughing up everything he had eaten or inhaled in the past twenty-three hours, either. His entire body was chilled and convulsing, and if he had any dignity before, it was as good as gone now.  
  
The real problem currently was that he was still totally confused. There were too many memories that he had the strange feeling weren't his, but if they weren't, then where did they come from?  
  
Jesus, his head ached.  
  
A voice was calling him from somewhere far away. Something whispering at him, telling him that things were all right. That he could inhale now.  
  
He did, and slowly things started to come back into focus. He was Leonard McCoy, ship's surgeon of the U. S. S. Enterprise. And he currently had the worst migraine he'd ever experienced in his life.  
  
Groaning, he opened his eyes, staring at the hands that held his shoulders firmly. Following them with his eyes, he saw wrists leading to arms leading to . . . "Spock," he croaked.  
  
"I'm here, Leonard."  
  
"So'm I, apparently."  
  
"It does seem that you now know how to swim," Spock offered.  
  
"Yes, it does," a voice rang out, and McCoy looked up blearily to stare at Amos. "You passed. Congratulations."  
  
"You son of a bitch," McCoy snapped. "You were willing to kill me just to check that? You could have just asked Spock! Vulcans can't lie! What the hell kind of man do you think you are?!"  
  
"Calm yourself, Leonard," Spock urged.  
  
"Dammit Spock, if you think—"  
  
'He will not hesitate to kill you,' Spock's voice rang out in his head, effectively silencing the doctor.  
  
"As I said," Amos elaborated as if they hadn't even spoken, "you've both passed. You'll be taken, healed, and outfitted, and then you can do as you like. When you're needed, you'll be summoned."  
  
And then, he turned, and left the acquisitions to their own devices.  
  
As soon as he was gone, McCoy started coughing again, shaking in the aftershock of all that had happened, at the terror of the water.  
  
Dimly, he heard Spock request that the others wait outside, and Gessad immediately acquiesced, urging the rest of them out into the hallway. More or less willingly, they all took their leave one by one.  
  
"Goddamn son of a bitch," McCoy growled, commanding his mutinous body to stop this pathetic shaking right now. He was less than successful.  
  
"You must relax," Spock urged. "Your body has just been through a substantial shock. It would be inadvisable to tax it further."  
  
"You telling me you're concerned about me, Spock?" McCoy asked lightly, attempting to tease.  
  
Spock opened his mouth, and then shut it again. 'It's appropriate that I should be, Leonard,' he thought. 'You are my bondmate.'  
  
McCoy gaped. Then, in a moment of pure impulse, he straightened and kissed Spock hard. The Vulcan stiffened in surprise.  
  
'Get used to it, Spock,' McCoy urged. 'You married yourself a human, you should expect certain spontaneous displays of affection.'  
  
'It might be more appropriate if you warned me first.'  
  
'Hmm . . . you're right. Then again, who ever said I concerned myself with 'appropriate'?'  
  
'I would certainly never make that mistake.'  
  
The bond had formed without their notice, which, McCoy thought, was a good sign. The long-range initiation had definitely done him some mental damage, but this contact-link was slowly becoming a familiar feeling, sort of safe and warm. He was well aware that he should be irritated, shocked and scandalized, but it seemed now to be a very small intrusion.  
  
Of course, the moment he thought that, it inevitably grew. The depth of the link began a cascade effect; spiraling into territory he didn't want it, old and painful memories. Nearly drowning as a child while his cousin died only a few feet away, both swept down by the under-tow. His more recent encounter with the water, so deep and cold, with no bottom to hold him up: water filling his lungs and choking off his air. Burning in his head.  
  
Burning. Chara IV, the day he had arrived there. A terrible fire in one of the giant, rickety poor-houses. Hundreds of charred bodies, covered in slick lymph carried in whatever could hold them. How many had died?  
  
Death. Patients lost, friends buried. Acquaintances. Faces in his medical records. Too many people died and, somehow, he had simply grown desensitized. Was that fair? Was it right that something in him no longer cried out softly in agony every time he confirmed a death? Every time he was forced to pull the trigger? Every life he exchanged for another, as if he had that right. As if he had any right.  
  
It was too much. A lifetime's worth of pain, and he just kept diving deeper, and the link was breaking through walls that had been there for a definite purpose. Penetrating his soul, impaling it as it fluttered to escape. He couldn't escape. He was absolutely, totally helpless, and he hated it. He hated it because it seemed to be readily apparent to whatever malicious being that happened along. It took one look at Jim, Spock and him, and always noticed right away who the weak link was. Then, it proceeded to exploit that weakness, using him to get to the others. Making him understand how frail he was, what a liability to the team he posed.  
  
Leonard McCoy suddenly understood very clearly that he was not cut out to be anyone's bondmate. There were places in him, depths and dark corners, that were unexplored for a reason. There was pain and fear and a horrible inadequacy that people could absolutely not see if they were ever to like or even respect him.  
  
It must be genetic. One of those whispered family secrets was that the McCoy's ancestors had been Clansmen. They had hanged people who were different than they were, and though Leonard himself often teased Spock about those attributes he possessed that racially separated them, he was secretly terrified that he might actually mean it. That, somehow, that disease had passed on in the blood, unnoticed until its foolish progeny ventured forth into the stars.  
  
And he had the audacity to think he could handle this?  
  
'You can.'  
  
'No! Spock . . . what I've said . . . what I am . . .'  
  
'You are nothing that you do not choose to be. There is absolutely no logic behind the notion of predestination. What your ancestors were does not affect you.'  
  
'Doesn't it?' McCoy demanded.  
  
'Your words were—'  
  
'Racial slurs.'  
  
'Yes, they were. However, to your credit, I am the only Vulcan you have ever directed such comments towards.'  
  
'Maybe it's because I felt safe venting to you. Maybe it was because I knew you couldn't hurt me, no matter what I said. Spock, God, I was so certain that all I wanted to do was rile you, however I could. I never imagined that—'  
  
'Leonard, do you hate me?'  
  
'Lord, no, Spock!'  
  
'Then your words mean nothing.'  
  
'Too bad you can't convince me of that.'  
  
McCoy felt his entire world trembling. These were the places he had wanted no one to see. The modern humanity stripped away to reveal a man who was still afraid of the unknown. The civilized good in him gone, leaving the ugliness only forgotten with a liberal dose of alcohol.  
  
This was a part of him that Spock should never see. The fact that he was there, that he had punched through McCoy's best defenses made him sick with fear. He had always known, on an instinctual level, that Spock was infinitely stronger, physically and mentally, than he could ever hope to be. Knowing on that level, and knowing it on this primitive level, however, were two completely separate things. It was the caveman meeting the astronaut for the first time, and realizing how tiny and insignificant he really was.  
  
Spock could destroy him now, he knew, with a single thought.  
  
'As could you.'  
  
McCoy was taken aback. However, his mind gasped for that purchase offered, and he began to understand Spock's meaning. While he was so caught up with the fact that he was now raw and exposed, he hadn't noticed that Spock was, as well. That all of Spock's dark corners were suddenly thrown into the light, too, that his own mind had pushed into a territory in which it wasn't entirely welcome.  
  
And he understood.  
  
He understood the rigid code of logic, put in place to control one of the most naturally violent races in the galaxy. They were desert dwellers, a small hairless being with no teeth or claws to speak of. The ears gave them some warnings, but the attacks had been fast and brutal. Soon, so were the Vulcans.  
  
That was what Spock fought. He sometimes feared that he would not be capable, that his logic would fail and that whatever emotions he kept under such tight restraint would simply explode, demolishing the people he cared about.  
  
The people he loved.  
  
And that was the worst part: logic was what held his entire fragmented being together, keeping warring Vulcan and human parts in check. It was the great mutual deterrent. Without it, he was certainly doomed to nothing short of chaos. With it, though . . .  
  
Spock was half-human, and that part of him longed for so many things with a wistfulness that shocked the human doctor.  
  
'You can compromise,' McCoy urged.  
  
'I cannot. My control is not so strong as you assume.'  
  
'There is nothing that you do not choose to be,' McCoy parroted back at Spock. 'Strike a deal with your human half. It might surprise you.'  
  
McCoy felt Spock's resolve weakening. The doctor had been placed in a position that truly affected the Vulcan, truly swayed him. His influences and inputs were far stronger at this level, where he appealed directly to Spock's submerged humanity, than they ever had been from the outside.  
  
He had no idea that he wielded that type of power over his half-Vulcan bondmate.  
  
Sudden resistance. Cold logic slamming into McCoy hard enough to daze. Lord, was Sock actually frightened by McCoy's ability to affect change within him? Was that what this was?  
  
McCoy's mind was forced up, back through layers of consciousness, making the balance uneven, making things fall out of place. Spock still existed within a terribly personal level of the doctor's psyche. He had either forgotten to pull out, or decided not to, but whichever it was, it was frightening McCoy, because it was far too much like another instance two years back.  
  
Spock, but not Spock, the man from the mirror universe, who had felt exactly like his friend, plundering his memories, with no regard to McCoy's desires. There was no control, no permission, only a violation that, by all rights, should have landed McCoy in a psych ward. Instead, it had been weeks of counseling with a very discreet M'Benga.  
  
And now, as it had been then, his head began to fill with excruciating pain and the terror of the truly helpless. He was horribly reminded that he had absolutely no mental training, that, at any given moment, Spock could decide to break the rules and kill him from the inside out.  
  
And he couldn't even scream.  
  
McCoy began to thrash, even as Spock realized his error. He began to try to pull out, but the emptiness, the sudden loss, let the pain rush in even harder, sweeping the human down. For the second time today, McCoy was drowning, only this time there was no one to save him.  
  
His air was gone, and, as he stared up at the light receding from his vision, McCoy lapsed into unconsciousness.

. . . . . . . .   
  
Gessad gazed at the prone figure of the human, marveling that such a physiologically pathetic species could have risen so far in an organization as seemingly vast as the Federation. They had redressed him in a comfortable human suit from his homeland, yet, still, he seemed to Gessad very small and weak.  
  
He informed the impassive Vulcan of that fact.  
  
Spock nodded stiffly. He had seemed doubly so ever since bringing his unconscious bondmate to the Cardassian, hoping for his assistance in healing and reviving Leonard McCoy. He had taken very little time to change into his own Vulcan robes in order to stay with his bondmate and aid in his recovery.  
  
It wasn't a particularly easy task with Kataq and Telara hovering over them, but that couldn't be helped. They were confined to only a small area, and diversions were few and far between. It was only natural that they would develop certain morbid fascinations.  
  
If only they wouldn't press so very close.  
  
It was difficult enough working in such primitive conditions and on a patient whose physiology was determined by guesswork and questions. He could use the dermal regenerator to patch up both the doctor's shoulder and the Vulcan's leg, but beyond that there was little he could do. He had attempted standard procedures such as slapping the poor human, but to no avail. However, the medical tricorder that their captors had left for first aid usage did reveal certain facts that he found greatly disturbing.  
  
There was absolutely no problem, he reminded himself, which could not be solved by a disciplined Cardassian mind.  
  
Unfortunately, his disciplined mind was currently telling him that nothing he could do would be of any use. Others, though . . .

He looked up at the assembled group, gauging the Vulcan's need for privacy. Finally, carefully choosing his words, Gessad looked to Telara and asked, "My dear, can I have a moment alone with Spock, please?"  
  
"It is unnecessary," she told him flatly.  
  
Gessad nearly hissed in frustration. Damn the woman and her uncompromising attitude.  
  
To his surprise, it was Kataq who saved him. "I do not care to stare at an unconscious human. It disgusts me. Come, Telara. We will work on the communications system." Grimacing at Gessad and their two newest companions, Kataq exited. Telara, after a moment to show that this was her choice, and that she did not blindly follow a Klingon's order, followed.  
  
When they were gone, Gessad looked up on the saturnine features of Spock. "Well?" the Cardassian prompted.  
  
Spock looked at him coldly. "I cannot tell what you are asking me simply from one word."  
  
"Do you have anything to say for yourself?"  
  
"That does not clarify the question."  
  
Gessad ran a hand through his hair. "This man is of a race with absolutely no special mental abilities. Am I correct?"  
  
"You are."  
  
"While your race is telepathic."  
  
"Indeed."  
  
"And you decided that it was a good idea to force the custom of a telepathic species on a non-telepathic individual?"  
  
"I did not force the issue, but yes, that is essentially correct."  
  
"Well, if you were trying to kill him, I would say that you're succeeding remarkably."  
  
That got a reaction, albeit a tiny one. For an instant Gessad though he saw fear on that alien's face, but then, all it seemed to be was a lifted eyebrow. "Indeed?" Spock queried, his voice soft.  
  
"His higher brain functions are deteriorating," Gessad explained. "It's been happening for a while now. His physiology isn't familiar to me, so I can't give you a good estimate, but at some time in the not too distant future, he's going to die if he doesn't receive treatment."  
  
"It is treatable, then?"  
  
Gessad shrugged. "If we were on my ship, I could perform an intensive stem- cell treatment to grow the brain cells required to sustain this new mental ability. As is, the . . . bond, is it?" The Vulcan nodded. "The bond is attempting to convert existing brain cells, which is very simply destroying his synaptic pathways."  
  
"This procedure cannot be done here?"  
  
The Cardassian barked in a short, bitter laugh. "Here we're lucky to have a dermal regenerator." He met Spock's eyes. "His only hope of survival is to get him off this backwards rock, and to a hospital that actually has medical equipment."  
  
"I understand."  
  
Gessad stared at the Vulcan, disturbed by the fact that he didn't even bat an eye at the plight of what the Cardassian could only assume was his husband. "May I ask a question?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Why aren't you concerned about him?"  
  
"I am Vulcan. Emotions are not indulged in by my people."  
  
That was a fact of which the Cardassian was already aware. In fact, it made this pair even stranger, in Gessad's opinion. Then again, it was the natural norm that opposites attracted. "I am well aware," he said carefully, "that it's not my place to question the nature of another culture. It's one of the primary foundations of xenobiology. However, I can tell you now that this man is dying, and he's frightened. He now possesses neural pathways he can't make any sense of, and, I'm guessing that he's losing other functions he's used to accessing readily. If you can't support him emotionally, it doesn't bode well." Gessad sniffed. "At least, that's my diagnosis."  
  
"I believe we should bring him out of this unconscious state before we concern ourselves with other issues," Spock stated.  
  
Gessad glared at the impassive alien, but shrugged. "Then I recommend you figure out how, because I'm fresh out of ideas."  
  
Spock stepped forward. "Being that he lapsed into this state as a result of a meld, it would seem logical that he could be awoken by similar means."  
  
Gessad rose from the chair he was currently occupying at the human's side, gesturing sweepingly. "Be my guest."  
  
He watched with interest as the Vulcan sat next to the human, placing his finger at points along McCoy's face. Gessad cocked his head in fascination as it seemed that absolutely nothing transpired. And yet, somehow, he felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. Cardassians were not a telepathic people by nature, but with such high levels of mental training, it was difficult not to sense when mental currents altered in some way.  
  
Then, Spock broke away, rising. "Doctor McCoy should awaken shortly. If you'll excuse me, I will go and offer my assistance to Telara and Kataq."  
  
Before Gessad could so much as voice a protest, Spock was gone, leaving him alone with the human. With a sigh of resignation, he resumed his seat.  
  
Suddenly, McCoy's eyes began to flutter. Gessad reached out, hesitating, and then gently holding his shoulders.  
  
"Spock?" the human doctor rasped.  
  
Gessad's heart went out to the man, it truly did. Still, best to be neutral in such a situation, for his own sake, if not anyone else's. "He's not here, Doctor."  
  
Blue eyes fixed on him and focused. "Where'd he go?'  
  
"He said that he was going to see if Telara and Kataq needed any help with their project."  
  
McCoy closed his eyes. "Of course."  
  
"I'm sorry," Gessad offered.  
  
"My fault, anyway. Pushed him too hard. He likes to make out like he's got no feelings, but he does, and it galls him to all hell. Man thinks he should out-Vulcan the Vulcans, if you catch my meaning."  
  
"Overachiever?"  
  
"You could say that."  
  
"Why did you do it?"  
  
McCoy looked at him quizzically. "Pardon?"  
  
"Why him? Out of an entire galaxy of eligible beings, why him?"  
  
McCoy looked disturbed, and Gessad held up a hand. "I apologize. I'm prying."  
  
"Yeah, you are, but I've been asking myself the same thing." He scratched his head.  
  
"Are you in love with him?"  
  
McCoy smiled. "That, my friend, is the million dollar question."  
  
Gessad wasn't quite sure that that meant, but knew that it wasn't an answer.  
  
McCoy eyed him. "I don't actually know," he restated.  
  
"You must have thought you were to bond with him in the first place."  
  
That made the human distinctly uncomfortable, interestingly enough. "Yeah, you'd think that, wouldn't you?"  
  
""You're not going to tell me what's really going on, are you?" Gessad asked, the corner of his mouth kicking up.  
  
"Doesn't look that way."  
  
The Cardassian nodded his approval. "Very good, Doctor."  
  
"Please, call me Leonard," the human brushed off.  
  
Gessad gave him a slow blink. "I didn't realize you considered us that close."  
  
McCoy looked at him in confusion. "It's common courtesy for new friends to call each other by their given names."  
  
Gessad, realizing his error, relaxed. "I see. On my planet, only your family or . . . very close personal friends address you by your given name."  
  
The human looked embarrassed. "Sorry."  
  
"Quite all right, and if it is your custom, than it's one I in which would be glad to practice." He smiled. "Just don't ask me to tell you my given name."  
  
"Is Gessad all right?'  
  
"Oh, yes, that's fine."  
  
"Wonderful. Gessad, at this moment, I have the headache from hell, and a bondmate I can't make heads or tails of. Now, normally, I'd decide to bury myself in work, but there isn't any work here. Since there's nothing else for me to do, I'm really hoping we've got alcohol here, and you wouldn't mind joining me in a drink."  
  
Gessad brightened at the prospect of an actual conversation, while at the same time feeling wary of what might happen to such a debilitated man if he imbibed. He ran the tricorder over the human again, trying to discern how much damage a drink might do him. However, he stopped, staring at the readings. It wasn't possible . . .  
  
But it would explain certain things, not to mention make the strange relationship between Spock and McCoy quite a bit more understandable.  
  
Gessad smiled brilliantly. "Why, Doctor," he stated, "I would be delighted."

. . . . .

. . . .

. . .

. .

.  
  
Next: Realizations are never easy.


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Impromptu Bondmates  
  
Author: Nemo the Everbeing

Rating: R

Author's Note: So, the cast is assembled, and may I just say hooray for arrogant Romulans, blunt Klingons, and sassy Cardassians! They make such wonderful foils.  
  
Thanks: To Kim! My fantastic beta, who's really helping me out in this first venture into "Star Trek" slash. You're great.  
  
Disclaimer: Still not mine.

. . . . . . . .   
  
Chapter 5  
  
"How is he?"  
  
Spock raised an eyebrow at Telara's blunt question. "He is . . . not well."  
  
"Is he dying?"  
  
"So it seems."  
  
She smiled. "You are an interesting man, Mr. Spock. Were your bondmate an equation, I can almost guarantee that you would be fretting over him as we speak. Yet, being that he's a man, and therefore attention to him might be construed as emotion, you completely ignore him." She turned away, every bit the superior Romulan. "You're worth keeping alive simply for the novelty."  
  
"I believe you oversimplify," Spock stated, remaining neutral.  
  
"And yet," she countered, allowing the words to dangle.  
  
Spock decided that they did not, in fact, need his assistance.  
  
What he had withheld from the Romulan woman was the fact that he also felt that he had been derelict in his duty to his crewmember (to his bondmate). Spock stiffened as guilt hit him hard. He had been able to control his emotions less and less lately, and now, as the reality of McCoy's situation began to sink in, all Spock could think was that he was responsible for what had happened.  
  
The Vulcan desperately sought solitude. He needed to mediate and regain his equilibrium if he had any intention of approaching this issue logically.  
  
Finally, he discovered a small antechamber off the main sitting room that, more than likely, served as a closet. However, its relative isolation made it ideal.  
  
Spock sat on the floor and tried to center himself. That, however, was proving difficult. Every time he closed his eyes, he was reminded that Leonard McCoy had seen parts of him that he had not wished anyone to see. The man had urged Spock to do something that could have disastrous consequences, and, to make matters even worse, Spock had been genuinely tempted.  
  
Because there was a vibrancy to McCoy's mind that had stunned the Vulcan. There was shame and a surprising amount of self-loathing there, yes, but there had also been life. It was illogical and complex, and . . . fascinating.  
  
And, Spock was forced to admit, there was something within him that longed for that with a surprising intensity.  
  
All of which led to his present dilemma. On the one hand there was McCoy, who was most assuredly suffering because of this link, and yet seemed to suffer more when Spock wasn't there to help him, however grudging the doctor would be to admit it.  
  
On the other hand was his own sanity, which dictated that he stay as far away from the human as he was capable, in hopes of minimizing the possible contamination risk his mind posed.  
  
And, on a completely separate and, Spock tried to insist, irrelevant level was the fact that McCoy was his bondmate. Logical or not, that meant something, and the longer they were bonded, the more it meant. It was disturbing to think that there might come a time when being bonded to one another would seem as natural as breath, but it was beginning to appear more and more likely.  
  
Leonard McCoy was, to use the colloquial phrase, well and truly under his skin.  
  
At last, after weighing his options as objectively and rationally as possible, Spock insisted to himself that he had to do what he could to save the doctor's life, or at least ease his suffering.  
  
So, using the vague sense that seemed to linger in the air, drawing a line between them, Spock moved to find his bondmate and attempt to speak with him.  
  
However, it seemed that someone had beaten him to that particular goal. Spock located the human in another small room, but stopped outside the door when he heard the voice of Gessad. "All I'm saying is, it seems odd that you would choose to spend the rest of your life with such a, forgive me, distant fellow."  
  
McCoy chuckled. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."  
  
"If you say."  
  
McCoy's voice became obstinate. "I do, indeed."  
  
"Would you prefer we move on to a more innocuous subject?" the Cardassian asked with unfailing politeness.  
  
"Was I that transparent?"  
  
"Most aliens are," Gessad assured him. "My people simply observe much more closely."  
  
"Good to know."  
  
"Do you have any hobbies?"  
  
That earned a laugh. "What?"  
  
"A more innocuous subject, Doctor."  
  
"Oh!" There was a pause in which Spock could only imagine McCoy was thinking. "Well, I like to sit and chat with friends, mostly. It's hard to have hobbies when you're CMO of a starship."  
  
"How well I know that."  
  
Spock frowned ever-so-slightly. He was not one to jump to conclusions on the intentions of others, especially when he couldn't even see them, but it sounded like there were certain amorous intentions in Gessad's conversation with the doctor. Given, that could well be the nature of his race, but the attentiveness and the almost teasing humor of his speech all indicated that he was, as Spock's bondmate might put it, making a pass.  
  
Spock was disturbed by that fact that the idea somewhat upset him, because, after carefully weighing the situation, he couldn't understand why. For all accounts and purposes, the notion of Gessad stepping in to fill an emotional void that Spock could not: a romantic capacity, was not only understandable, but logical. And yet, for all that, Spock had the irrational desire to discover some sort of malicious intent behind the alien's actions.  
  
It was most incomprehensible.  
  
McCoy, he realized, was chuckling again and, through that slender thread that still linked them, Spock sensed that his bondmate was feeling slightly . . .  
  
Drunk.  
  
McCoy was drinking. Spock didn't imagine that such an action would help his beleaguered brain in the slightest.  
  
"Sir," the human stated, "if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to seduce me."  
  
Gessad's reply was pleasant, if a bit arch. "And what, pray tell, makes you think that I'm not? If you'll notice, I've been drinking as much as you have. In all likelihood, my inhibitions have been significantly affected."  
  
"In other words, you're trying to pass the buck."  
  
"Pardon?"  
  
"You're preemptively blaming anything you say on the booze, am I right?"  
  
Gessad laughed softly. "Most definitely."  
  
"Well, I'll have you know that I'm a married man."  
  
Something in Spock was very relieved to hear that.  
  
"Really?" Gessad asked, his voice sibilant and soft. "Forgive the observation, then, but it's never appeared to be so."  
  
Spock stiffened.  
  
McCoy, too, seemed to go on the defensive. "What do you know?"  
  
"Only what I've seen, what the tricorder told me." Gessad's pleasant tone remained. "From the progression of the deterioration, I estimate that you were bonded last night. However, if memory serves, you were here at that time. It seems obvious, then, that the bond was forged to save you from execution."  
  
"So," McCoy rasped, suddenly sounding very cornered, "why is it that you haven't gone and told everyone yet?"  
  
Gessad sounded genuinely hurt. "You think I'm trying to blackmail you."  
  
"The thought had crossed my mind."  
  
"I'm not," Gessad assured him. "I simply thought that honesty would be best, under the circumstances."  
  
"So, why have you been playing dumb up until now?"  
  
"Because hearing you lie was most interesting."  
  
"You're a complicated man."  
  
"I am Cardassian."  
  
"Can I assume that it's one in the same?"  
  
"While I normally hate to make generalizations about any given race, I am forced to concede that point."  
  
"Fascinating," McCoy breathed.  
  
Spock felt that same upset rising within him again. It was one thing to know that the Cardassian was testing the waters, but for McCoy to respond was . . .  
  
Completely within his rights, Spock reminded himself. It was not as if he and the doctor had pursued any such avenues themselves, and, as Gessad had pointed out, the bond was a necessity, and nothing more.  
  
That did nothing to quell the upset.  
  
Deciding swiftly and against all logic he knew, Spock keyed the door which slid open to reveal the two men, sipping drinks and leaning toward one another. Whatever Spock had just interrupted, McCoy looked distinctly embarrassed, while Gessad just turned a pleasant smile on the Vulcan.  
  
The Human rose. "Well, thank you for the drink, Gessad. I think I need to . . . check on the others."  
  
"A pleasure, Doctor," the Cardassian purred.  
  
McCoy nodded tersely and moved past Spock, meeting the Vulcan's eyes for a second.  
  
'Nice to know you're still alive,' the sarcastic thought burst in his mind, surprising Spock by its presence without physical contact. In response to that surprise, McCoy snapped, 'Seems there's nowhere I can go that you can't find me.'  
  
'Doctor, I feel it would be appropriate for me to apologize—'  
  
'Appropriate?!' McCoy moved past him, radiating pain and anger at such a level that even Gessad must have felt it. 'Save it for a man who isn't too busy dying.'  
  
With that, the doctor stormed out.  
  
Spock was stunned. The emotions he had just been hit by were dizzying, and the guilt it brought was even more so.  
  
"My, did the temperature drop, or was that just me?" a voice queried behind him.  
  
Spock turned his gaze on the alien, who was pinning him under a stare of incendiary intensity. He was not certain what Gessad meant, but if he was referring to the mood, then, yes, it had been chill, and it just continued to get colder. "What are your intentions toward my bondmate?" he queried as simply as possible.  
  
Gessad rose in a fluid motion. "I take it you heard the entire conversation."  
  
"No. However, I did hear quite a bit."  
  
"Then, I believe you'll have no trouble extrapolating my intentions on your own."  
  
The Cardassian moved for the door, and Spock stepped in front of him. He didn't say a thing, but their eyes locked, struggling silently.  
  
Gessad flashed him a set of gleaming white teeth in something between a grin and a snarl. "Very well, if you insist I be blunt, I'll be blunt: I am attempting to help an intelligent, attractive, witty man who is currently terrified because his mind is being ripped apart from the inside, and his so-called bondmate is too preoccupied with his cultural heritage to step up to the task." Gessad raised his chin defiantly, "Or do you deny it?"  
  
Spock opened his mouth to respond, but found that he couldn't. The fact was that Gessad was utterly correct. Brutally so, in fact.  
  
"If I thought that this bond was anything more than a sham, if I thought my attentions wouldn't be welcomed with open arms, I wouldn't even bother," Gessad hissed.  
  
Spock was aware that the alien was dangerously close to him. Inches away, in fact. So, when their eyes met again, it was across such a short distance that both the opposition and the intimacy of the moment were stressed.  
  
"I am Vulcan," was the only answer Spock could utter. "To allow my emotions free rein—"  
  
"If Vulcans didn't love their mates, your species would be extinct." Gessad leaned even closer, breathing into Spock's ear, "Union is a natural state for every race. Procreation necessitates it, and loneliness spurs it on, even for those who can't procreate. So, don't even try to . . . pass the buck."  
  
Then, to Spock's great surprise, the Cardassian moved swiftly, pressing his lips to the Vulcan's. Then, as soon as it had happened, he stepped back, smiling enigmatically. "I will yield as soon as you don't."  
  
As the gray-skinned man strolled out, Spock mused that everyone on this planet seemed to take perverse pleasure in believing they were superior to him in some way.  
  
And, in some cases, they were also right.  
  
Spock was in a quandary. He was well aware that bondmates did have intense connections that could only be described as emotional, but his was such a strange and unwanted bonding that to acknowledge it as something of such legitimacy seemed completely inappropriate.  
  
And yet, the prospect of Gessad seducing McCoy had caused him to actually abandon logic and interrupt what was a legitimate and healthy interaction between them, especially considering McCoy's deteriorating condition.  
  
McCoy was dying. He had been reminded of it twice, once by Gessad, and once by McCoy himself. Obviously, the Cardassian had informed the doctor of the fact, when it had been Spock's place to do so. McCoy was understandably hurt. It had, after all, been the bond that had put him in such a position. Then, Spock had abandoned him at a critical moment because he feared what further connection might do to his own mind.  
  
Spock had feared. After years of trying, McCoy had finally provoked profound emotion in the Vulcan completely unintentionally. Whether or not he permitted it, it seemed that this bond would continue to cause Spock's emotions to surge. Already, he had experienced more guilt, upset, fear and general negative emotion than had come up in ten years.  
  
Such a reaction was to be expected if he were in Sarpedion's Ice Age, he mused, but here, with no telepathic or racial prompting . . .  
  
Then, he came to the only conclusion that seemed remotely logical: he had, unbeknownst to himself, fallen in love with the gruff, adversarial human. Do deny that fact would be counter-productive.  
  
Therefore, with that conclusion in mind, Spock realized that he must act without delay to assure that Leonard McCoy understood the shift in their bond. Should he hesitate, then the doctor may well decide to act upon the obvious attraction between himself and the alien xenobiologist. In fact, such an even might well occur even if Spock made his attraction known.  
  
Still, logic dictated that to do nothing would produce nothing, and therefore, he must confront Leonard McCoy in what was assured to be an extremely volatile situation, no matter what the outcome.  
  
Spock, with a purposeful stride, moved off to find the recalcitrant human.

. . . . . . . . .  
  
Meanwhile, Leonard McCoy stood, staring at Kataq's broad back, handing him whatever tool the Klingon might request.  
  
Of course, requesting equipment seemed to be one of the last things on Kataq's mind.

He vastly preferred racist ranting.

"I do not understand why you still live. You are not only a human, but you are a sickly human. You are going to get us killed." He thrust one hand back. "Stem-bolt."  
  
McCoy slapped it into his palm, and sighed as the Klingon resumed his tirade. "Your species is without honor. You will sell us out at the first sign of trouble. Your bodies are fragile, and your demeanor is that of a sniveling child—"  
  
All right, that was it. He was dying and, dammit, he didn't have time for this! The Klingon wanted to hurl insults? He better get ready to scrap with an expert! "You want to know something about my demeanor? How about the fact that my brain's about to go dribbling out of my ears, and I can still make time to knock you around this entire complex."  
  
Kataq whirled. "You challenge me?" he demanded.  
  
McCoy drew himself up stiffly. "If that's what it takes to get you to shut up and work with me, then hell yes, I'm challenging you."  
  
The Klingon stared at him. "You would die in a fight with a Klingon," he summed up.  
  
McCoy snorted. "I'm the CMO of Starfleet's flagship. You think this is the first time I've been in personal combat with a Klingon? Son, I was wiping the floor with your uncles before you were even thinking about a military career."  
  
Kataq lunged, and McCoy, acting more on reflex more than anything else, swung the wrench in his hand, hitting Kataq hard in the side of the skull. The Klingon responded with a brutal punch to his stomach. McCoy dropped to his knees, wheezing in exaggerated pain. He watched the Klingon approach, obviously sure of victory.  
  
The two things the great warrior didn't count on, however, was the fact that Leonard McCoy had no intention of playing fair, and that he had enough alcohol in him to give him a good deal more courage than he ever would have had, otherwise. He was ready to press his advantages.  
  
Like surprise. He suddenly surged to his feet, using his head to knock the wind out of the Klingon. Following up that move without delay, he slammed the winded alien up against a bulkhead, pulled back a hand, and swung, halting it less than a centimeter from Kataq's nose.  
  
"I could have hit your nose with the heel of my hand right there and ended it," he snapped. "Breaking your nose at a certain angle would force the bone into your brain, at the very least making you a vegetable for the rest of your life. Now, you want to get back to work, or does this pathetic human have to repeat this little demonstration?" He really hoped that Kataq passed on a repeat, because McCoy was decently sure that this entire battle had been about luck, and, without it, he would be very dead.  
  
And, suddenly, the Klingon threw his head back and laughed. "You are indeed a worthy opponent, Leonard McCoy! Tiny warrior doctor!"  
  
"Damn straight," McCoy sniffed, using all the bravado he knew.  
  
The Klingon slapped him on the back, knocking the human staggering several steps before he could regain his footing. McCoy glanced up angrily, only to be greeted by a toothy grin.  
  
"So you like me now?" McCoy asked sourly.  
  
"Your courage exceeds your size."  
  
"You keep mentioning my size."  
  
"It is not something I can ignore, but I shall forgive it!"  
  
McCoy sighed, deciding that there were some things that just weren't worth arguing. "Thanks," he muttered.  
  
"You are welcome. Ratchet."  
  
McCoy glumly passed the Klingon the tool.  
  
"So, tiny warrior doctor, what troubles you?" Kataq asked over his shoulder as he worked.  
  
"The name's McCoy, and do you mean aside from the slavery?"  
  
The Klingon barked in laughter. "I mean that you are without your parmaqqay, Tiny McCoy."  
  
"My what?"  
  
"Your beloved."  
  
"Oh . . . him. I'm not sure that's the word I'd use."  
  
Kataq glanced over his shoulder. "He is not your beloved?"  
  
"Do you have any clue how hard it is to love a Vulcan?" McCoy asked evasively.  
  
"Then why did you marry him?"  
  
"You know, I've been asking myself that same question."  
  
Kataq got a strangely thoughtful look on his face. "What has caused your problems?"  
  
McCoy frowned, crossing his arms across his thin chest. "You a marriage counselor?"  
  
Kataq scowled. "No. However, I have given advice to many of my friends, and they now are all happily married."  
  
McCoy shrugged. One willing ear was as good as any. "We're both damaged goods. That's causing problems. The bond is slowly destroying my brain. That causing more. He doesn't want anything to do with me. That's also a problem."  
  
"I suggest you duel."  
  
"What?" McCoy demanded, taken aback.  
  
"I suggest you duel," Kataq repeated, as if it were most obvious. "You can vent your anger, work out these problems, and arouse your passions."  
  
McCoy gaped, not able to correlate Spock and anything remotely having to do with arousing his passions. "He's a little stronger than I am," he reminded the Klingon, trying to stay on neutral ground with this one.  
  
Kataq nodded thoughtfully. "Indeed. Perhaps that is not the best idea, then. Broken bones seldom lead to romance in other cultures, I have found."  
  
"Usually not."  
  
"It is a difficult problem."  
  
"You're preaching to the choir." At Kataq's quizzical look, he translated, "It means that I completely agree."  
  
"Ah." Again, Kataq grew pensive. "Then, if you cannot duel, you must think. To me, it seems that you are confused."  
  
"Me?! Why am I the one who's confused?"  
  
"You have forgotten why you have married this man," Kataq answered. "Tell me, what does he make you feel?"  
  
That question, at least, was easy. "Irritation, mostly. Frustration, inferiority, worry, anger, provocation . . . do I need to go on?"  
  
"No. It seems to me that he is an ideal mate."  
  
"He's a what? Those are the qualifiers of a good match in your culture?"  
  
"Tell me, if you did not have him to irritate you, would your life be as stimulating?"  
  
McCoy blinked, opening his mouth and closing it again. Damn the Klingon, but he had a point. The fact was that McCoy liked arguing with Spock. He liked baiting him and being baited back. Sure, there were moments (and more than a few) that he wanted to kill the Vulcan, but he did keep McCoy from going stir crazy on that starship. They kept each other engaged during the long stretches between events, and, though McCoy hated to admit it, Spock had saved his life on more than one occasion.  
  
Those pointed ears and not-quite smiles, the teasing and arched eyebrows sent his way. Those moments of revelation, when something obviously clicked in Spock's mind, and he was off and running.  
  
Suddenly, that same click happened to McCoy, and he was shocked and dismayed.  
  
Clearly, it showed on his face, for Kataq offered him that same toothy smile. "Klingons understand love far better than most," he stated proudly, and went to work again.  
  
"Oh, my God."  
  
Kataq regarded him with bemusement. "Humans use so many words when dancing around what is obvious to all."  
  
In horror, McCoy stared at the Klingon, his mouth hanging open and his eyes filled with disbelief. "I'm in love with him," he gasped.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I'm in love with Spock!"  
  
"Yes."  
  
McCoy sat down on the floor right where he stood, burying his head in his hands in despair. "I'm going to die."  
  
"It is possible, but it will be a glorious death."  
  
"Jesus."  
  
"Leonard," a voice rang out.  
  
McCoy was on his feet, regarding the Vulcan who seemed to have simply popped up out of nowhere. The doctor found himself staring like he had never seen him before, and he really wasn't sure what was going to happen. "Spock," he breathed, scared out of his mind.  
  
However, that fear immediately made him angry. Why the hell was he afraid of Spock? How could he give him that advantage? "What are you doing here?" he demanded gruffly.  
  
Kataq watched them in bemusement. "I can see where your problems have arisen."  
  
Spock regarded the Klingon quizzically.  
  
"Tiny McCoy is in love with you, and he blusters because of it. You should act on your mutual passions so you can aid in our rescue unhindered by your mutual sexual tension."  
  
He plucked the stem bolt from McCoy's hand as the human gawked at him in utter horror. In response to the shock, Kataq winked at the doctor good- naturedly. "Now, I will leave the two of you alone."  
  
He strolled away, swaggering proudly.  
  
Slowly, McCoy turned to the Vulcan, who gazed at him with two drastically arched eyebrows.  
  
McCoy opened his mouth, closed it, and then managed to say, "Well, this is damn awkward."  
  
"I am forced to agree."  
  
Wracking his brain, McCoy finally blurted, "There is a real good explanation for all this. It's sort of a . . . a long story, so bear with me."  
  
"You are in love with me," Spock summed up.  
  
"Apparently not that long."  
  
"I have come to the conclusion that I am in love with you, as well."  
  
"I—what? You're what? How? When? I mean . . . Jesus!" Spock took a step toward him and McCoy scrambled back. "Whoa, there! Just . . . hold up, 'cause I'm still . . . processing."  
  
Spock cocked an eyebrow at him. "This would not be the first time we have kissed."  
  
"Maybe so, but this is the first time it's all had . . . layers."  
  
"Layers?"  
  
"Meaning, Spock!" McCoy found himself flailing his arms, and quickly pulled them back. "Dammit, this is bizarre."  
  
"I agree," Spock told him, bemusement glimmering in his eyes. "However, being that the attraction seems to be mutual, acknowledgement would seem to be the logical next step to take."  
  
And, oddly enough, that comment seemed to relax McCoy, and he found himself grinning.  
  
"What do you find amusing?" Spock queried.  
  
"You. You just made sex logical."  
  
"I didn't realize I was speaking of sex."  
  
Something seemed to draw McCoy closer, and, suddenly, he found himself greatly enjoying the fact that Spock was definitely sending off some sudden, uncomfortable emanations. That, combined with alcohol, helped the doctor overcome his former squeamishness to a certain degree. "You definitely were, my fine, pointy eared . . ."  
  
"T'hy'la," Spock supplied, and then seemed very startled by what he had just said.  
  
"What did you just call me?"  
  
"T'hy'la," Spock murmured. "It means . . . brother, friend, lover."  
  
McCoy blinked, taken aback. "Um . . . oh. My. That's . . . damn." McCoy seemed to consider, then came to the sudden realization that he didn't need to. Sometime during his mini-breakdown, he had realized that he wanted this. It was not only logical, but, dammit, it was right, in the most gloriously illogical sense of that word. Pulling together his alcohol- bolstered courage, he said, "Lover, huh? Maybe I could do that," he said simply. Thinking over what he had just stated, he revised quickly, "Not, you know, at this very moment, but . . . yeah."  
  
"Soon?" Spock wondered.  
  
"Spock, if you haven't noticed, I'm sort of flying by the seat of my pants, here. I'm making this up as I go."  
  
"Is that a 'no'?"  
  
"It's a 'your guess is as good as mine'."  
  
"I see." Spock seemed to be very confused, not sure what he was supposed to do at that point. Then, surprisingly, he offered two fingers, extended toward the human.  
  
McCoy remembered that gesture. It was something he had seen shared between Spock's parents: a Vulcan embrace, the closest thing to a public display of affection bondmates would permit themselves.  
  
Bondmates.  
  
McCoy breathed, "Well, I'll be damned," and then extended his hand, pressing his index and middle finger to Spock's.  
  
Spock looked up to him, face impassive, even as his eyes were alight in a shy sort of almost-love. McCoy felt that tender part of himself that he really tried to keep under wraps start to rear its head at that moment. Without asking, he knew this sort of thing was not something Spock had ever done before.  
  
McCoy leaned in and planted a quick kiss on the surprised Vulcan's cheek, whispering in his ear, "Don't be nervous."  
  
"I am incapable of being nervous."  
  
"You just keep telling yourself that, T'hy'la."  
  
With his free hand, McCoy reached up, hiding his own nervousness for Spock's benefit. The fact was: Spock wasn't the only one who really hadn't tried anything like this yet. McCoy knew that if he thought about it too much, he would panic, and probably do something humiliating. So, he just dove on the proverbial grenade, moved those few inches, and pressed his lips against Spock's.  
  
The bond flared up, even as McCoy tried to stay in the real world. This was definitely a corporeal matter that needed resolving. Apparently, Spock agreed, because those kisses were getting harder and more urgent with every second.  
  
Maybe 'soon' had been a fine time-frame, after all.  
  
In between kisses, McCoy attempted to convey just that. "We need to find us a room with a bed." Well, that might be problematic. Their room was a fair distance away, and at the rate they were going, they weren't going to make it. Amending, he stated, "Or a couch." Spock slid slender fingers through McCoy's hair, tousling it and causing the human to shiver in delight. "Or a nice patch of floor."  
  
"You are drunk," Spock managed, though McCoy noted with a certain amount of smug pride that it didn't mean Spock stopped kissing him.  
  
"Got a problem with it?"  
  
"Alcohol—" a particularly insistent kiss "—impairs one's logical—" and another kiss "—capacities."  
  
"Spock," McCoy stated, pulling back, and grinning devilishly at the slightly dazed Vulcan, "you honestly think I'd be logical, even if I weren't tipsy?"  
  
"You do have a point. However, it still poses a moral quandary. I cannot determine whether or not you actually would wish this if you had not imbibed."  
  
McCoy was becoming irritated. "So, you're, what? Proposing that we wait until I've sobered up?"  
  
"It would be the correct thing to do."  
  
"Don't you ever get sick of doing the correct thing?"  
  
"No."  
  
McCoy frowned, running his hands through straight, black hair, delighting in the fact that he could make it stand up oddly. His fingers found the oft-mocked pointed ears, and, at that moment, he had to admit a certain aesthetic appreciation. As strange and alien as they were, they could also be called exotic, and it was the word he currently felt obliged to use.  
  
Dimly, McCoy was aware that Spock was correct. He was definitely more than a little tipsy, and it was affecting his behavior. If he were sober, he'd definitely be much more reticent to break their self-imposed distance.  
  
Still, right now, Spock's swift series of blinks and the slight parting of lips that McCoy was causing were more than worth this transgression. After all, wasn't it he who was always encouraging Spock to be more human?  
  
"Do you enjoy mussing my hair, Leonard?" Spock asked, and McCoy was surprised to hear him use such a familiar title with no one else around.  
  
"I do, indeed."  
  
"They will suspect."  
  
"They already do, Honey."  
  
Spock seemed distinctly taken aback. "Honey?" he deadpanned.  
  
"Well, I considered 'Sugar Plum', but you just ain't that sweet."  
  
Spock shifted uncomfortably, and through his hand, McCoy felt nervousness, discomfort, fear.  
  
'I dislike this loss of control,' Spock explained. 'I feel that I will lose my dignity.'  
  
Repressing the urge to tell Spock that losing one's dignity was the point, even though the message was probably still received by the Vulcan, McCoy tried to see things from his perspective. Spock, like any good Vulcan, had limited himself to sex once every seven years, and since his first Pon Farr had been interrupted, that meant . . .  
  
Spock had really never done anything like this before, with men or women.  
  
And there was that tenderness, again, that seemed somehow incongruous when applied to the stoic Vulcan.  
  
Still, he saw past that, just like Spock saw through him. "We'll go as slow as you want," McCoy assured him. "No matter how much it drives me crazy."  
  
"That would be . . . most appreciated."  
  
"But I still retain the right to call you a goddamn pointy-eared tease," McCoy added, enjoying the way Spock blinked in consternation at him as he tweaked the tip of one of the aforementioned ears for emphasis.  
  
"Then, I retain the right to call you an illogical human with no sense of timing as to alcohol consumption."  
  
"Oh, hey, that's not fair. It's not like I knew we were going to try our hands at the fairy-tale romance thing."  
  
"Leonard," Spock sighed. "It is highly unlikely that we could manage a 'fairy-tale romance thing', even if you were not drunk."  
  
"Excuse me? Which one of us is the romantic, here? I'm from the South, dammit! Rhett, Scarlet, "Gone with the Wind", and all that hoo-hah."  
  
Spock arched an eyebrow. "Can I assume that I was not meant to understand that reference?"  
  
McCoy grasped one of Spock's hands in his, conveying the meaning through that. "No, you cannot."  
  
Spock arched an eyebrow, growing cold in his irritation. "I am simply stating that you would expedite matters considerably if you did not use such colloquial phraseology."  
  
McCoy gave as good as he got, glaring angrily at the Vulcan. "You might want to develop an appreciation for my 'colloquial phraseology', cause I'm not changing it on your account."  
  
"You are exceedingly stubborn."  
  
"I ain't the only one!"  
  
They had been pulling closer and closer during the altercation, and McCoy was suddenly aware that their argument was actually turning him on! Immediately he started to step back, but was pushed up against the nearest wall and caught up in a startlingly fierce kiss. After several seconds that were muted for obvious reasons, Spock pulled back, pupils dilated and turning his eyes completely black.  
  
"You having second thoughts about waiting until I'm sober?" McCoy demanded breathlessly. "Or third thoughts?"  
  
"This is morally impermissible," Spock stated, hands moving heatedly across McCoy's torso, eyes troubled.  
  
Grinning, the doctor concurred, "Damn straight."  
  
"It is not logical."  
  
"Hell, no."  
  
"You mentioned a couch?"  
  
"Two doors down, if I'm not mistaken."  
  
Spock set his shoulders and McCoy admired the man's determination. It now seemed rather inevitable that this would be done, and so, he saw no reason to delay it further. McCoy was smiling at the Vulcan like he finally won the argument, which probably troubled Spock to no end, but it didn't actually prompt him to change his course of action, either.  
  
Sliding his arm around McCoy, he moved in the direction the doctor had pointed him.  
  
"You know something, Spock?" McCoy queried, his voice tinged with a hint of wickedness.  
  
"What, Leonard?"  
  
"I think I finally persuaded you to act illogically."  
  
"You have no idea how troubling that fact is, Leonard."  
  
"Really, Honey? 'Cause I thought—"  
  
Suddenly McCoy gasped, staggering. Through the opened link, Sock immediately sensed that something was incredibly wrong. McCoy's breathing was erratic at best, at in his ears, Spock heard McCoy's heart start to beat erratically.  
  
The synaptic pathways controlling his autonomic pulmonary system were being overwritten.  
  
Immediately, Spock pressed into McCoy's brain, forgetting prior concerns about the meld in the desperate necessity to stop the collapse of the doctor's heart. He found the source of the problem easily enough, but not the solution. The telepathic ability was an autonomic function, and, as such, would take root in the brain stem, but the prospect of it overwriting such a vital system was exceedingly dangerous.  
  
He had to reroute the overwrite immediately. Hurriedly, he searched the human's brain stem, at last determining what he considered the least necessary function provided by that area of the brain, and hoped that they would be able to correct the problem should they ever escape and return to the Enterprise.  
  
He felt McCoy's heart rate stabilize, even as the man lurched into his arms, squawking in terror.  
  
Spock pulled out of McCoy's mind as gently as possible, returning to his own body and supporting the human, who clung to him hard.  
  
"Jesus, Spock," McCoy rasped, "the entire world's tilting. What the hell is going on with me?"  
  
"Your cardiopulmonary functions were being overwritten by the bond."  
  
"So that's what a heart attack feels like."  
  
"Indeed. In saving your life, I was forced to reroute the damage to a less vital area of your brain stem. In this case, I chose the centers responsible for your sense of balance."  
  
"My sense of balance?" McCoy demanded, staring at Spock in incredulity. "I don't have a sense of balance now?"  
  
"It was an unfortunate necessity doctor. However, it is not one that we are likely to be afforded again. The next bout will have to be rerouted to a far more damaging area, such as your ability to sleep."  
  
"Jesus."  
  
"It is better than your ability to swallow," Spock offered.  
  
"Jesus," McCoy repeated, looking ill.  
  
"I am sorry, Leonard," Spock said, securing his hold around the slender human, who, in turn, tightened his grip on Spock as if clinging to reality.  
  
"I'm going to die," he intoned, his voice flat and choked. "This bond is gonna kill me, isn't it?"  
  
Spock opened his mouth, but could find no words.  
  
McCoy looked up, the slightest smile curling lips already tightened with badly repressed fear, "Why, Spock, are you actually speechless?"  
  
Spock understood immediately, and countered, "Of course not, Doctor, I was merely attempting to come up with an explanation that you would actually understand." If McCoy needed an argument to keep him going, then Spock was more than willing to oblige him.  
  
"I believe I was just insulted."  
  
"You were."  
  
"Green-blooded son of a bitch," McCoy murmured affectionately.  
  
"Stubborn, illogical human."  
  
McCoy tried to move, but almost toppled over, skewing helplessly back into Spock. His eyes closed as he sagged against the Vulcan. "I can't walk."  
  
"No."  
  
"Spock, how the hell am I gonna get off this rock if I can't walk?"  
  
"The logical answer would be that I shall carry you."  
  
McCoy gazed at him in bemused admiration. "Damn romantic of you."  
  
"Practical, Leonard. Vulcans do not participate in romance."  
  
"Of course they don't, T'hy'la," McCoy drawled, and grinned at Spock in cheeky defiance, while at the same time shaking in fear.  
  
Spock couldn't help but admire the dichotomy of it.  
  
He swept McCoy up into his arms, realizing that this was the same position they had been in at the beginning of this strange situation. McCoy's head thumped gently against his shoulder, even as the doctor groaned and closed his eyes.  
  
"Whoa, there," he warned, "let's take that whole movement bit a little slower from here on out, okay?"  
  
"I am sorry. Did I dizzy you?"  
  
"Honey, right now, looking sideways while breathing 'dizzies me'. That was a bit more like bungee jumping in a hurricane."  
  
"Bungee jumping?"  
  
"You're touching me. You got no excuse not to know what that is."  
  
Spock frowned, but examined the mental images he was being fed through the bond, staring in shock at the human. "That is a custom on Earth?"  
  
"More of a pastime, really."  
  
Spock blinked, reassured that he would never fully understand the human thirst for thrill-seeking, especially in such an extreme form as strapping oneself to an elastic cord and diving off a bridge. "Completely illogical."  
  
"Bungee jumping and sex, huh?"  
  
Spock noted that, yes, he had stated that both were illogical. "Apparently so."  
  
McCoy snorted.  
  
"It would be advisable to find the others and inform them of this new development," Spock suggested after a brief pause.  
  
He glanced down to see the human do a fairly good impression of his eyebrow- lift. "Like I said," he drawled, "some damn honeymoon we're on."  
  
Spock found himself in complete and utter agreement.

. . . . .

. . . .

. . .

. .

.  
  
Next: Blowing the Popsicle stand.


	6. Chapter 6

Title: Impromptu Bondmates  
  
Author: Nemo the Everbeing  
  
Rating: R  
  
Disclaimer: Do people read these things? Seriously, I don't own them, and I don't make any money.

. . . . . . . . .   
  
Chapter 6  
  
"Good heavens!" Gessad exclaimed as they walked into the room. Or, more accurately, when Spock walked into the room, and McCoy, feeling like a prize idiot, was carried in.  
  
Kataq looked astounded. "I specifically told you not to duel." He shot a glare at Spock.  
  
"We did not," Spock responded to the Klingon's building animosity towards him, even as he set McCoy gently down on a chair, righting him as the doctor immediately began to list to one side.  
  
"It's the bond," McCoy added when he was vertical once more. "Targeted my cardiopulmonary system, but Spock managed to reroute it."  
  
"Of course," Gessad murmured. "The brain stem would be a very likely target for such a phenomenon."  
  
"What faculties have you lost?" Telara demanded, sitting in an over-large chair like some sort of judgmental bird of prey.  
  
"Sense of balance. I can't walk."  
  
Gessad blew out his breath in frustration. "That will cause distinct difficulties. Amos doesn't like damaged goods."  
  
"He will kill Leonard," Spock realized.  
  
"After his performance during Amos' tour? I wouldn't doubt it."  
  
"You know," McCoy groused, "I'm getting damn sick of my life being in danger."  
  
"I, too, am growing weary of it," Spock commented archly.  
  
McCoy shot him a venomous look which the Vulcan apparently chose to ignore.  
  
"We must escape immediately, then" Kataq pronounced. "It would be dishonorable of us to sit by as a man such as Tiny McCoy is given an ignoble death."  
  
"So, if he were dying in a battle, you wouldn't lift a finger?" Telara demanded.  
  
"To die in battle is a great honor. Why would I stop such a thing?"  
  
"Typical Klingon."  
  
"Can we please get back on track?" Gessad broke in, thoroughly exasperated.  
  
"Thank you," McCoy supported.  
  
Gessad shot him a smile before continuing, "It's clear that the times will have to be moved up considerably. How fast can we be ready?"  
  
"We can't," Telara snapped. "We had a schedule. If we work according to it, we'll escape without difficulty. But if we attempt to change the times, we'll run undue risks." She stared down Spock, as if it were his decision that would decide the matter. "It would be logical to let one die, if it means that four others can live."  
  
Spock reached down and placed a hand on McCoy's shoulder, squeezing in reassurance. "Do not lecture me on logic."  
  
"Someone should," she snapped. "You'd let him live for personal reasons, for your feelings. You are no Vulcan."  
  
"Neither are you, so it is unlikely you would understand the calculations I've made to determine the proper course of action. To simply risk five lives to save one that would otherwise certainly be terminated is an acceptable risk. One cannot give in to a real danger to prevent a potential threat."  
  
Telara fell silent, but her dark eyes glittered in malice. To his surprise, McCoy realized that it was not directed against the Vulcan, but against himself.  
  
The whole universe was against him, he swore to God.  
  
Well, maybe not Gessad, who immediately stated, "I agree. It's worth the risk if we all get out of here alive."  
  
"Besides," Kataq enthused, "the greater the danger, the greater the glory."  
  
"Unless that glory gets us killed because of some dead weight," Telara snapped.  
  
Kataq gave her his toothy grin, which seemed much more pointed when it was turned upon the Romulan. "Heqhlu'meH QaQ jajvam," he enunciated.  
  
Spock cocked an eyebrow at the Klingon, and McCoy blinked.  
  
It was Gessad, though, who ventured, "Care to enlighten us as to what that means?"  
  
"It is a great Klingon phrase: today is a good day to die."  
  
"Thanks," McCoy stated, grimacing, "but I'd just as soon live."  
  
"Quite," Gessad sniffed.  
  
"What are the plans for our escape?" Spock prompted. "We must start implementing them immediately."  
  
"Kataq is in charge of taking care of Amos and his device, since he can function longer than any of the rest of us after it's been deactivated," Telara snapped. "Gessad shall sabotage the comm. system so no one can call for reinforcements before I can take them down. My job is the guards."  
  
"What must I do?" Spock asked.  
  
"Keep your bondmate out of trouble, Vulcan. If we're going to do this, we're going to minimize the likelihood that we die on account of him."  
  
"Glad to help," McCoy sniped.  
  
Telara looked at him with loathing.  
  
Gessad rose fluidly. "I'll get to work on the comm. system. Telara?"  
  
"Don't get killed."  
  
"Thank you," Gessad sniffed.  
  
"We'll . . . stay here," McCoy concluded lamely, feeling like a particularly useless lump. A lump that couldn't even sit up without aid. Telara may be as cold as a well-digger's ass in the Klondike, but she was also decently accurate: he was a liability.  
  
Kataq looked at him in sympathy, and McCoy realized that the Klingon was misinterpreting his remorse to mean that he wanted to get out there and get some of that glorious battle. "When I am done with Amos, I shall come back for the two of you. Can you carry a phaser, Tiny McCoy?"  
  
"Carry? Yes. Aim? It's questionable." At the Klingon's look of disappointment, McCoy, to his surprise, found himself amending, "But I'll try."  
  
He grinned, "Then carry one you shall. And your deeds will be the stuff of songs."  
  
McCoy sighed. "Always been a fan of bluegrass."  
  
Kataq blinked in slight confusion, but didn't ask McCoy to clarify that. The doctor was silently glad. He doubted if he had the strength to explain.  
  
Gessad's eyes swept the assembled party. "I'll trip the alarm if I'm caught. Don't come for me."  
  
"We won't," Telara purred.  
  
"Be careful," McCoy added.  
  
"I am Cardassian."  
  
"Can I assume it's one in the same?" McCoy asked good-naturedly, a slight smile creasing his face.  
  
Gessad grinned. "Well, I do hate to make broad generalizations."  
  
"But you concede the point."  
  
Gessad glanced at Spock, and for a moment, McCoy was aware that there was an unspoken communication between them. Then, Gessad looked back to him and nodded, "Be careful, yourself."  
  
And, with that, the Cardassian slipped out of the room.  
  
Telara rose. "I must get some supplies if I'm to fulfill my part in this." She nodded to the men, "Gentlemen, if you'll excuse me." She considered. "Or even if you don't."  
  
And she, too, left.  
  
Kataq watched her leave. "I admire a warrior woman," he muttered, "but I feel that there is something deceptive about her."  
  
Spock glanced at the Klingon. "I was not aware that Klingons were so perceptive."  
  
"A Federation perspective often dims one's view of Klingons," Kataq pointed out. "I believed before our meeting that humans were weaklings and Vulcans were cowards. But Tiny McCoy has power, despite his unfortunate size."  
  
"And my courage?" Spock queried.  
  
"Has yet to be seen."  
  
Kataq pulled a short, handmade knife from his jacket.  
  
"Whoa!" spluttered McCoy. "Let's save the fighting until after we escape, huh?"  
  
Kataq laughed. "This is not for you, Tiny McCoy, nor for your parmaqqay. This is for Amos."  
  
"Oh. In that case, make sure you say 'hi' from me," McCoy drawled.  
  
Kataq nodded his shaggy head. "I shall."  
  
And then he left, and they were alone.  
  
"Well," McCoy said during the silence that drifted into the room.  
  
Spock was staring at him.  
  
"Yes?" McCoy prompted. "You wanted something?"  
  
"You were very . . . familiar with Gessad."  
  
McCoy regarded him for several seconds before breaking into a slight, mischievous grin. "Spock, are you jealous?"  
  
"I am incapable of jealousy."  
  
"Uh-huh. Sing me another one."  
  
Spock, who still had his hands on McCoy's shoulders, instantly inferred his meaning and frowned. "Why must you constantly question everything I say?"  
  
"Cause you need it, and 'cause I'm a contrary sort of fellow."  
  
The tiniest of smiles tugged at the corners of Spock's mouth. "You are a very frustrating bondmate."  
  
Looking as smug as a man could who currently needed aid just to sit up straight, McCoy drawled, "Admit it, Honey, you love it when I push your buttons."  
  
"It may be true," Spock murmured, "but you will not hear me admit it."  
  
"And, see, that's why I like you," McCoy said, feeling embarrassed, but this needed to be said, now that danger was looming up to overtake them. "I would have gone space crazy a thousand times over if I didn't have you around to frustrate all hell out of me."  
  
"You, too . . . frustrate all hell out of me."  
  
McCoy broke out into a grin. "Well, then, Spock, Honey, seems to me we're doing pretty well for ourselves."  
  
Spock ran his fingers down McCoy's arm and took up his hand. Concentrating, McCoy extended his index and middle finger, and felt them press against Spock's.  
  
McCoy looked up from their joined fingers, fighting down the nausea that accompanied the movement, and said forcefully, "We're gonna make it through this, Spock. We're two tough ol' birds who have seen too many things and fought too many battles to get ourselves killed by some backwater mafia boss."  
  
"Although your wording leaves something to be desired, I must agree."  
  
"I like Gessad," McCoy said, aware of his apparent non sequitur, but wanting to be very clear at this point. "He's intelligent, funny, witty, talks better than a liquored-up politician, and, speaking of, he's good to get drunk with."  
  
Spock looked like he wanted to pull out of this two-fingered embrace.  
  
But McCoy wasn't done, "But he doesn't drive me nuts. He doesn't want to debate every little thing. So, I'd probably get bored with him. Or he'd get bored with me. Either way, it's not something that lasts. I gotta have some conflict in my life or I get stir-crazy. That's you, Honey. Adversarial, Spock? You take the cake, and I love you for it."  
  
Spock stared at him. "What—"  
  
"You heard me," McCoy snapped, "I love you, you damn pointy-eared pixie. I like Gessad. I like him a lot. Under different circumstances, that might lead to some other things. But not now, 'cause I might like him, but I love you, and no alien xenobiologist's gonna change that unless you really get me mad."  
  
Spock looked bemused. "So, then, you wish me to make you angry, but not too angry."  
  
"Never said this relationship was going to be easy."  
  
"And I never assumed it would be."  
  
"Good, 'cause I want you in it for a damn long time."  
  
"That, Leonard, seems to be inevitable."  
  
McCoy laughed. "Look at us: about to face down death, and we're spouting poetry at one another. You do bring out some strange impulses in me, Mister Spock."  
  
"And I would definitely agree that the reactions you have caused in me have been rather aberrant, Doctor McCoy."  
  
"So, strange and aberrant, huh? Think we can make it work?"  
  
"Do you wish me to quote you the odds?"  
  
"Don't even think about it, Honey. I may not have a sense of balance, but I still think I can get one good wallop in if I really try."  
  
"I will endeavor to remember that."  
  
McCoy smiled and leaned in to kiss Spock. Unfortunately, he listed too far and his head ended up colliding with the Vulcan's shoulder instead of his face. Voice muffled in Spock's shoulder, he murmured, "All right, we need to escape if only so I can get my sense of balance back and ravish you properly."  
  
"Ravish, Leonard?" Spock asked, sounding distinctly amused.  
  
"You questioning my phraseology?"  
  
"Every day."  
  
"Shut up and kiss me."  
  
Spock, maneuvering him carefully, to keep the now constant nausea at a minimum, pressed his lips to McCoy's.  
  
McCoy hummed softly in approval. As much as he loved to argue with Spock, this new activity was definitely becoming a very close second. He couldn't help but wonder if there wasn't some way he could combine arguing and kissing. It would at least give him hours of amusement, and Spock did love experiments.  
  
'Leonard, your thoughts are increasingly distracting.'  
  
'Hey, you. Been a while since I've seen you around here.'  
  
'You cannot see me. I am a disembodied presence in your mind.'  
  
'It's an expression!'  
  
'I know.'  
  
'Heh.'  
  
'Leonard?'  
  
'There goes hours of experimentation.'  
  
'You are referring to your desire to combine arguing and kissing?'  
  
'Sure enough.'  
  
'It does seem to no longer be an issue.'  
  
'What are we going to do now, huh?'  
  
Spock pulled back, arching an eyebrow at him. "Leonard, I believe that you, of all people, can come up with numerous activities that could occupy our time when we return to the ship."  
  
McCoy's eyebrows shot up, even as he grinned in delight. "Why, Spock, that was almost overt of you."  
  
"Indeed. You are a bad influence, I surmise."  
  
McCoy reached out and grasped the collar of Spock's robes, keeping his eyes fixed on the Vulcan's for some sort of center. "Honey, you ain't seen nothin' yet." With that, he pulled Spock back down into the kiss, adding a fire to it this time around, wanting him to remember this during the coming trials.  
  
'Kataq could walk in and see us thus,' Spock noted.  
  
'Spock, if you hadn't noticed, Kataq wouldn't mind. In fact, come to think of it, he'd be thrilled.'  
  
Spock's mental voice took on a tone of mild amusement. 'A romantic Klingon.'  
  
'Wonders never cease.'  
  
McCoy struggled to press closer, forgetting his own disability for a moment in his quest to break Spock's eternal composure.  
  
It didn't work out as planned, though, as he toppled off the couch, caught by Spock just before his face had a rude and humiliating encounter with the floor. He stared at the ugly, shag carpeting and blinked, trying to clear his vision and his head as they both swam.  
  
"I hate this planet," he stated.  
  
"I've gathered this."  
  
"We need to get back to the Enterprise before I keel over and die on account of all these near-misses we've been having, Spock. A man can only take so many of those, you know? Bound to be consequences."  
  
Spock righted him once more, looking bemused, though his dark eyes were sympathetic. "It does seem that the circumstances have continually blocked our efforts at intimacy."  
  
"The whole damn universe is conspiring against us, you mean," McCoy corrected.  
  
"Being that we are only currently occupying a small part of the 'whole damn universe', that is a very risky assumption to make."  
  
"And yet."  
  
Spock considered him. "Perhaps it would be best if you lay down. Then, at least, you do not run the risk of 'keeling over' as you put it."  
  
McCoy shook his head. "I'm not going to act like some damn invalid."  
  
"Leonard," Spock said with infinite patience, "you are some damn invalid."  
  
McCoy jabbed a finger at the Vulcan, then swayed woozily. "Now wait just one goddamn minute! I am absolutely not—"  
  
Suddenly, the entire world seemed to turn upside down as McCoy's diaphragm contracted painfully. He was aware of Spock stubbornly attempting to hold on to him, but even the Vulcan could only go a few moments before his arms dropped away like leaden weights.  
  
McCoy promptly fell off the couch again, and Spock wasn't there to catch him. He hit the floor hard, and his vision blurred even more as his head cracked against the carpet with an unsettling thunk. Instinctually, McCoy curled into himself, struggling to inhale. It was impossible, though, he realized.  
  
He had stopped counting how many times in the past few days he was certain he was going to die. It had almost become routine. Even so, he hated this fiercely. It just seemed unfair that he should die here, especially considering all the things he was hoping to do with, and to, Spock.  
  
And now, all of that was never going to happen.  
  
Then, just as suddenly as it had contracted, McCoy's diaphragm released. He gasped in a lungful of air, heedless of the burning which immediately flooded his entire chest. It was oxygen, and for the moment, it was all that mattered.  
  
Actually, for several moments it was all that mattered, and he lay, gasping in air like a landed fish and thanking whatever twist of fate kept saving his ass right in the nick of time.  
  
Then, after about thirty seconds, he felt a hand settle on his arm. "It appears," Spock managed, his voice only slightly strained, "that Kataq has dispatched Amos."  
  
"Didn't seem to work out quite as well as we'd hoped."  
  
"And yet we are alive, so it is logical to conclude that Kataq was successful, at least."  
  
"He was," a voice boomed from the door. McCoy didn't turn his head for fear of throwing up, but he knew the Klingon's voice anywhere. "Come Vulcan, gather Tiny McCoy. We must hurry."  
  
McCoy felt arms gather him, and closed his eyes to attempt to quell the reaction that his quick ascent into Spock's embrace caused. When he was decently sure there would be no more fast dips or lifts, he opened his eyes and saw the Klingon extent an old-model phaser. "Here," he said, "you may carry Amos' weapon as we escape. Fight well."  
  
McCoy smiled wanly. "I'll do my damndest."  
  
So, they moved out. The Klingon led, the Vulcan took up the rear, and McCoy, the doctor mused, was left hanging in the middle.  
  
Nothing else to do but make lousy puns, was there?  
  
Then, from around the corner in front of them, Gessad moved quickly and quietly. "The comm. system is most assuredly down."  
  
"It took you longer than expected," Kataq stated.  
  
"Someone must have found our work. I was forced to backtrack a bit."  
  
"That does not bode well," Spock noted.  
  
"No," Gessad agreed quietly, "it doesn't. Hopefully Telara has held up her end of things. If not, this is likely going to be a very short escape." He glanced at McCoy, "How are you?"  
  
"More seasick than I've ever been, possibly concussed, and pretty bruised, but still alive, so I can't complain." He considered that for a second. "Much."  
  
"Leonard," Spock murmured softly, "I trust in your ability to complain in any given circumstance."  
  
"Well, somebody's got to say what everybody else is thinking," McCoy grumbled.  
  
"This is beginning to look bad," Gessad said, interrupting their muted conversation. "Telara should be back by now."  
  
"It is possible that she was killed," Kataq pointed out.  
  
"Which would mean that there is at least one armed guard on the premises, most likely looking for us as we speak."  
  
"What would you have us do?" Kataq snapped. "Run and hide like sniveling rodents?"  
  
"If I thought it would do any good, then, yes, I would have us do that." The Cardassian sighed. "However, since it's doubtful that running and hiding would actually keep us from summary execution, I suppose we might as well die in an attempt to escape."  
  
"Then, on that at least, we agree," Kataq snorted.  
  
"Wonders never cease," the sharp, clear voice of Telara sounded.  
  
Everyone, even McCoy, looked to see her stride towards them briskly.  
  
"I take it from your continued existence that your mission was a success?" Gessad inquired politely.  
  
"Draw your own conclusions."  
  
"How far to the exit?" McCoy asked.  
  
"And what will we do when we actually escape?" Spock added.  
  
This seemed to make their three companions pause.  
  
Spock arched his eyebrow at them. "I see. Can I propose, then, that we do not attempt a physical escape from here, but instead reroute the communications system to broadcast to orbit?"  
  
McCoy looked up at him. "The Enterprise?"  
  
"I believe it should be here by now."  
  
"That's actually a decent idea," Gessad mused. "After all, survival outside of this compound for such . . . colorful characters as ourselves would not be a likely occurrence."  
  
"Especially now that we've killed a crime boss," McCoy added.  
  
"This is ludicrous!" Telara snapped. "We would change our well-laid plans now? After all that we have accomplished?!"  
  
"Even a warrior recognizes that to survive to revel in his glory is better than death. Especially death at the hands of such dishonorable mongrels," Kataq said.  
  
Telara's eyes narrowed. "I should have known."  
  
"What, that we'd want to give ourselves the best chances at survival?" McCoy drawled. "Yeah, you should have."  
  
Spock was already on the move, passing Telara to go to the Cardassian. "Where is the nearest access port to the communications system?"  
  
Gessad turned. "The one I sabotaged, actually. Come."  
  
McCoy, bouncing unhappily in Spock's arms as they picked up the pace, found himself watching the Romulan woman who took up the rear. Her look was positively venomous, and McCoy began to have a distinctly uneasy feeling about this whole plan.  
  
Too many variables that were just begging to go wrong.  
  
However, despite his certainty that they were all going to die, the small group reached the access port without incident. After a moment's consideration, Spock set McCoy on the floor, and he and Gessad got to work on the panel.  
  
The air was tense as they worked in near silence, only occasionally muttering in a language McCoy didn't understand, but often referred to as 'technobabble'. Their hands flew over controls, and unplugged wires only to put them in other terminals.  
  
Then, suddenly, out of the speakers, a voice crackled, "—ise, please respond. I repeat, this is the U. S. S. Enterprise, please respond."  
  
It was Uhura.

She had never sounded so damn good as she did just then.  
  
Spock hit a button on the panel in a manner that could almost be described as hasty. "Spock here," he stated.  
  
"Spock?!" the communications officer gasped. "Thank God! We were beginning to think—well, never you mind what we were beginning to think. I'll just—"  
  
And then a voice cut in to the transmission. "Spock?" Kirk's voice asked, an edge of urgency to it, "is that you?"  
  
"Yes, Captain."  
  
"Is Bones with you?"  
  
"He is, as well as three other aliens that have been imprisoned with us. It would be prudent to beam us up quickly."  
  
"We've been trying to scan for you, but we think you're in a shielded location. We're tracing the comm. signal now. If we have to, we'll do a mass transport, so get everyone as close to the panel as possible."  
  
"Noted, Captain. May I ask—?"  
  
Suddenly, the panel exploded in sparks, and Spock leaped back to avoid them. Gessad was not so lucky, and was thrown against the wall next to McCoy, sliding down in unconsciousness.  
  
The remaining three men turned to stare in horror at Telara, who stood with a Romulan disruptor in her hand. "We are not going to the ship," she stated flatly.  
  
McCoy protested, "Now wait just one damn—"  
  
She fired again, and the panel above McCoy exploded, raining sparks on him as he yelped in pain.  
  
"We are not going to the ship," she restated. "I would rather die on this planet than in a Federation prison."  
  
"We would not stop you if you wished to stay behind," Spock said, remarkably calmly, though he edged slowly towards McCoy.  
  
Telara noticed. "If you move another inch," she stated, "the next shot goes through his throat." Calmly, she pointed the disruptor at McCoy.  
  
Spock stopped.  
  
"Why would you destroy all of our chances of escape merely to ensure that you alone stay?" Kataq growled. "Let us beam up and leave you to do as you please."  
  
"I need you here. To survive in a place like this, one must have money," she said, her lips curling. "Amos cannot be the only mafia boss who is interested in collecting rare specimens from other worlds."  
  
"And what makes you think they won't collect you, too?" McCoy snapped furiously.  
  
"Because I'm better for them outside. If they capture me, I am a resource with only one use. Outside I can provide them with so much more."  
  
"This is foolish!" Kataq snapped, charging forward.  
  
Telara dropped him with one well-placed blast.  
  
McCoy cried out, but couldn't move to check the Klingon's condition.  
  
Telara strode forward, stepping over Kataq's body with lithe grace, her eyes fixed on Spock. She passed Gessad, who was still unconscious, and then, viciously kicked McCoy, knocking him to his side and nearly rendering him unconscious. He gagged and, before he could stop it, threw up for the second time in as many days.  
  
Telara moved past him slightly, enough so Spock's view of McCoy was blocked.  
  
"Now, Vulcan," she said, "not to be overly dramatic, but you have a choice to make. The fact is that I could use a partner in this venture. You would, of course, be ideal, what with your superior strength and your capacity for reason. Therefore, you can aid me, and I promise that your bondmate will be well cared for. If, however, you refuse, I will kill him myself."  
  
"You are aware that I will kill you, even if you should succeed," Spock stated, his voice every bit as chill as Telara's.  
  
"Of course," she acquiesced. "It is only to be expected."  
  
"The Federation is a far better option than this planet."  
  
"You will forgive me if I disagree, Spock. Any freedom is better than none."  
  
"We would return your to your people."  
  
"Disgraced. To be rescued by the Federation would ruin me. No, Vulcan, the only logical course of action is to stay here and make what life I can."  
  
"Even at such a cost to those you have lived and worked with?"  
  
"There is a Romulan saying that states: never make a friend you might have to kill later. These are not my friends. I would sell them as soon as look at them."  
  
"Then why offer me a partnership?"  
  
"Because I know that to survive in this place requires more than one person. You cannot lie to me, Spock, and you are stronger than any human. You are the ideal choice."  
  
"It would mean leaving my bondmate, and that is something I cannot do."  
  
"Come now, Spock, surely you don't think me a fool. I've already divined the true nature of your relationship. You bonded with the human to save him from execution. He is no more your mate than I am."  
  
"You are correct in your first supposition, but he is my mate, and, therefore, I shall not leave him."  
  
"I'm sorry to hear that," she murmured in something almost approaching compassion. "You, of all of them, I did not actually wish to kill."  
  
McCoy had heard enough. This scenario obviously made sense from her perspective, but he didn't actually care. Their fate wasn't this damned woman's choice to make.  
  
Besides, she was threatening his bondmate.  
  
So, he did the only thing he could do. He got his feet under him and, sending himself into a mess of vertigo, pushed himself roughly to his feet and let gravity and momentum propel him forward. He reached out, and, filled to brimming with nausea, he slammed his fingers home at the Romulan's juncture of shoulder and neck in a perfect Vulcan nerve pinch. Spock would be damn proud.  
  
He waited for the Romulan to fall.  
  
Only Telara didn't.  
  
McCoy stared in cheated horror as she turned sharply and fired on him point blank. Even over the roaring in his ears, McCoy heard the whine of the disruptor. It felt strange, like someone had socked him in the gut, and he felt his body hit the wall, slewing over and down as he crashed to the floor in a graceless, boneless pile.  
  
The last thing he saw was Spock lunging for Telara.  
  
And then, strangely, he heard a hum.

. . . . .

. . . .

. . .

. .

.  
  
Next: Because some things are just harder to adjust to than others.


	7. Chapter 7

Title: Impromptu Bondmates  
  
Author: Nemo the Everbeing  
  
Rating: R  
  
Author's Note: Boys and girls, it's been fun. Thanks for reading this new sort of story for me, and thanks again to Kim for being my beta. You're wonderful.

. . . . . . . . . . .  
  
Chapter 7  
  
The light was bright as all hell when Leonard McCoy opened his eyes. In fact, for a second, he was completely convinced that he really was in some horrible afterlife, and the Devil was leaning over him.  
  
Then, he realized that it was only Spock.  
  
Then, from somewhere outside his field of view a warm voice said, "You know, Doctor, I've begun to question why they always let you go on these missions. You never seem to come back quite right."  
  
McCoy rolled his eyes. "M'Benga?" he asked.  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"Shut up."  
  
Then, a new voice entered the conversation, laughing. "Now, Bones, is that any way to talk to the man who's patched you up so well?"  
  
"Jim, is that you?"  
  
Kirk's face moved into his sight. "Sure is."  
  
McCoy regarded the assembled mass of people hovering over him in bemusement. "Guess I know how Dorothy felt, huh?"  
  
Spock looked quizzical, while Kirk smiled at him. "Who does that make me, then?" the captain teased.  
  
"One would hope the Scarecrow."  
  
Kirk shook his head in good-natured disparagement. "Are you trying to tell me something?"  
  
McCoy faked innocence. "Whatever would lead you to that idea, Captain, Sir?"  
  
Kirk laughed again. "And what about our Mr. Spock?"  
  
McCoy got a mischievous grin on his face. "The lion, of course."  
  
Kirk didn't follow, but as Spock surreptitiously brushed his hand against McCoy's he arched an eyebrow at the grinning Doctor.  
  
Immediately, the bond springing up between them, McCoy became privy to more information than simply the sexual innuendoes of "The Wizard of Oz".  
  
Spock hadn't told Kirk about their bonding. M'Benga knew, but Spock had held off informing the captain.  
  
Smart man.  
  
As if reading their minds, Kirk said, "What I don't understand is how you ended up as bad as you did. The injuries I understand, but the brain damage? How did that happen?"  
  
"Brain damage which, by the way, I've fixed," M'Benga added. "A simple Vulcan procedure."  
  
The subtext of that statement was in no way lost on the doctor. "Jeffrey, you're a saint," McCoy told him.  
  
"How well I know that."  
  
Carefully at first, and then with more certainty, McCoy swung his feet over the edge of the biobed and sat up, glancing at the assembled men.  
  
Kirk, particularly, was eyeing him with careful scrutiny.  
  
"What?" McCoy demanded.  
  
"You're being evasive," Kirk pointed out.  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about."  
  
"You're also not a great liar."  
  
McCoy set his face in stubborn lines and Kirk sighed.  
  
"Does this have something to do with certain finds you made on the planet?" the captain suggested. "The ones we're currently holding in our brig?"  
  
At that, the entire nightmarish final scene on Harmageiddon II returned to McCoy's mind. He remembered watching in horror as Gessad and then Kataq were brought down, and that last image of Spock grappling with the equally powerful Telara after his own aborted attempt at a nerve-pinch.  
  
Kirk had said guests.  
  
Plural.  
  
"Can we see them?" McCoy pressed.  
  
Kirk glanced at M'Benga.  
  
"He's sound enough," the other doctor conceded.  
  
Kirk shrugged. "You heard the man. Come on."  
  
Spock immediately stepped up to help McCoy, who found the tactile contact between them much more awkward on the Enterprise. Here duty and expectations came back to the fore, while they could be pushed to the back of his mind on the planet.  
  
'You are finding the concept of our continued bonding to be troubling,' Spock commented.  
  
'It's tough to incorporate into my sense of how things around here run.'  
  
'The change would be imperceptible to the rest of the crew, Leonard. As we have proved, we will not discontinue our . . . discussions, even if we are bonded.'  
  
'Arguments, Spock. We have arguments. You don't call names in "discussions".'  
  
'I do not "call names" at any time, Leonard.'  
  
'You implying something, Honey?'  
  
'Whatever would lead you to that assumption, Doctor, Sir?'  
  
McCoy shot Spock a surprised look. 'Was that an attempt at humor?'  
  
'Certainly not.'  
  
Kirk glanced back and caught then staring at one another. "Gentlemen?" he queried, sounding uncertain.  
  
McCoy shook himself. "It's nothing, Jim. Spock's just . . . full of surprises, is all."  
  
Kirk eyed him, and McCoy knew that he didn't have his captain at all convinced, but Kirk decided to let it go for the time being and resumed his brisk pace.  
  
McCoy and Spock both knew that they couldn't keep this deception up for much longer. Jim Kirk may be brash, and at times even arrogant, but one couldn't possibly accuse him of being dim. He already knew something was up, and before long, he'd be wanting an explanation.  
  
But, for the time being, they had other, more immediate concerns.  
  
They continued on to the brig, only to find it in an uproar. Security personnel were hustling about, and Giotto stood hip-deep in the middle of it, barking out orders.  
  
"Report," Kirk snapped, dropping his casual act like an old sweater. It was a talent McCoy couldn't help but admire.  
  
"We don't know how she did it, Sir," Giotto managed.  
  
"Who did what?" Kirk prompted, but Spock was moving beyond him.  
  
"Telara," Spock stated, and McCoy felt his insides go cold at her name. At Kirk's questioning look, the Vulcan added, "I apologize, Captain. I was so focused on Doctor McCoy that I failed to inform you of the events that transpired on the planet's surface. Telara is the Romulan woman you beamed up with us."  
  
McCoy also pushed into the room, and immediately saw what all the fuss was about. Telara lay in a graceful sprawl on the floor, and aside from the green cast of her skin and eyes, she seemed perfectly poised, as always.  
  
He knelt at the woman's side, checking her in a more or less cursory manner. After all, he knew what he was going to find. "She's dead, Jim," he said, looking up at the captain. "Fried herself on the force field, though Lord knows how she did it."  
  
"Then the Lord and I share something in common," a wry voice stated.  
  
McCoy spun, shocked to find himself regarding Gessad in another containment field. "Why is he in there?" the doctor demanded.  
  
"Sorry, Sir," Giotto tried to explain. "When you were beamed up, things got very confused. I decided to put them all in separate cells until this business got sorted out."  
  
"As I was saying," Gessad broke in, "Telara accessed the field through a wiring juncture in the wall. Then, she tampered with the settings until she made the charge of the force field lethal. A rather simple and elegant suicide for a woman who refused to be captured alive."  
  
"But why?" McCoy demanded. "Why the hell'd she refuse?"  
  
"To avoid a return to her people in disgrace," Spock stated simply, regarding her body impassively. "To return to them in anything less than victory would be utter ruin in her eyes."  
  
"She took the coward's way out," another voice from the next cell spat.  
  
McCoy couldn't believe his eyes. "Kataq?"  
  
The Klingon looked amused. "Surprised to see me, Tiny McCoy?"  
  
Ignoring Kirk's stifled snicker behind him, the doctor said, "More that you're here, and not on a slab in my morgue."  
  
The Klingon threw his head back and laughed. "It takes more than a Romulan disruptor to kill a Klingon." Then, he added, slightly more sheepishly, "And apparently she was not aware of Klingon physiology and at what point on my body a shot would be lethal." He shrugged eloquently. "It appears that luck more than anything was on my side."  
  
McCoy smiled. "Sounds all right to me." He then turned to the captain. "Jim, these two men saved both of our lives several times over."  
  
Kirk stared hard at their unlikely saviors. "You pick up the strangest friends, Bones," he told the doctor. Even so, he signaled Giotto, who dropped the fields imprisoning Gessad and, after a slight hesitation, Kataq.  
  
The Klingon stepped out and clapped McCoy on the shoulder. "It is good to see you on your feet once more, Tiny McCoy. I worried that your days as a warrior were over, and I worried also for your parmaqqay, should you die."  
  
Kirk looked puzzled. "Your what?"  
  
McCoy pretended not to hear him. "Well, I'm a tough old bird."  
  
"That you are," Gessad murmured.  
  
McCoy turned to him. "You! Last I saw, you got yourself electrocuted."  
  
"An unfortunate turn of events, I admit. I was mildly concussed, but it's nothing that my people can't fix."  
  
McCoy heard alarms in his head go off, even as the ship clamored with proximity warnings to echo them.  
  
"Your people—"  
  
Gessad smiled deviously at him. "I'm afraid I was not quite forthright with you, my dear human doctor. You see, my shuttle did crash, but it was not alone." He scanned the faces of the other stunned humans in the brig, and the one Vulcan face, impassive but for the single raised eyebrow. "I admit that I did not have much hope for relations in this direction from Cardassia at first, but you have forced me to reconsider."  
  
The Cardassian stepped away from anyone else and raised his chin. "Perhaps we will meet again under more official circumstances, Leonard McCoy. It would be, I imagine, a distinct pleasure."  
  
Then, before anyone could stop him, Gessad grasped the collar of his shirt, which bore a single brooch. In a voice that rang with a sudden, unexpected power and authority, he called, "This is landing party one. Transport."  
  
And before their eyes, Gessad dissolved into a pillar of light, adding as he left, "Until then, Doctor."  
  
McCoy couldn't honestly say he was surprised. In fact, he was grinning. Clever son of a bitch did have a taste for the dramatic.  
  
"Until then," he responded to the absent form of his enigmatic friend.  
  
"Did you know—" Kirk began angrily.  
  
"Not a clue. It was just fitting, is all."  
  
The captain rolled his eyes and glanced at the Klingon. "I don't suppose you have any fireworks show you want to dazzle us with, too?"  
  
"A Klingon needs no such flair. All I ask is that you take me to the borders of Klingon territory and return me to my people."  
  
It was obvious that Kirk didn't actually like that idea at all, but this man had saved the lives of his first officer and CMO. A debt was owed.  
  
Kirk nodded tightly.  
  
Kataq smiled. McCoy realized that, even though he himself had earned Kataq's respect, old prejudices ran deep, and this was Captain James T. Kirk, enemy of the Empire.  
  
He should be glad they weren't engaged in a full-on brawl by now, the two hot-heads.  
  
Wading in to prevent tensions from rising any more, McCoy stepped up to the massive Klingon and asked, "What about you? You took a phaser blast to the chest. Klingon physiology or no, that's going to do some damage."  
  
"A warrior—"  
  
"Wants full access to all his capacities," McCoy stated. "Come on, Mister. Let's get you to the infirmary."  
  
So, the day passed, and McCoy seemed to be refereeing Kataq and Kirk's silent challenges and skirmishes, attempting to treat the recalcitrant Klingon, and, at some point in time, corner Jim so they could talk about what had happened.  
  
That opportunity for the last task finally came at dinner, when Spock entered the sickbay just as McCoy finished passing the dermal regenerator over Kataq's chest for the final time. M'Benga's shift was done, and McCoy had sent Chris home already, so that just left the three of them.  
  
"That'll do it," he said. "You're gonna need to relax for a while to give that time to fully heal, but you're going to be fine."  
  
A security guard waited, and then escorted the Klingon to his quarters. Kataq went along more or less willingly after giving the two of them one last, less than subtle wink.  
  
And then, Spock and McCoy were left alone in the room.  
  
"We need to tell him," the doctor blurted out.  
  
"I agree. That is why I have contacted the captain and requested his presence in his cabin for dinner."  
  
"You what?!"  
  
"I believed that you would prefer to tell him in private."  
  
"If course I would, dammit, but I thought you would have talked it over with me before making this sort of plan!"  
  
"You were not there when the opportunity arose. I apologize."  
  
"Goddammit, Spock! This is completely—" Cutting himself off, McCoy sat down on the edge of one of the beds and ran a hand through his hair. "Who knew it would be this difficult? Just thinking about doing this is making my stomach do jumping jacks."  
  
Spock regarded him quizzically, but didn't ask. Instead he said, "He is our captain, and, therefore, deserves to know about something that so highly impacts his senior staff."  
  
"Yeah, Spock," McCoy snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose. Then, more softly, he added, "I know. It's just . . . it's Jim. I'd hate to think of him not approving of this." He waved his hand vaguely between the two of them.  
  
Spock crossed to stand before him and McCoy glanced up at him. "His blessing is very important to you, then?"  
  
"He's one of my closest friends. Yes, it's important."  
  
"Then to tell him seems only—"  
  
"You say logical, and there'll be consequences."  
  
"—Rational."  
  
For a second, the doctor couldn't decide whether he wanted to shout at Spock or laugh. At last, deciding on a compromise, McCoy pulled himself to his feet and kissed the Vulcan hard, enjoying the momentary surprise he evoked. Then, he pulled back and said, "Let's get this done, then."  
  
They moved quietly out of sickbay and headed resolutely for the captain's cabin. As they went, McCoy couldn't help but wonder what, precisely, he was getting himself into. Once they told Kirk, this thing between him and Spock was going to be official. They would be as good as married.  
  
Married.  
  
It was an interesting thought. After all, they were pretty much married in the Vulcan sense. To make it real for McCoy, though, what they really needed to do was go through the entire wedding rigmarole. Suits, party and all.  
  
And he would like nothing better than to have Jim Kirk be the one to preside over the ceremony.  
  
Jesus, was he in deep, or what?  
  
Before he knew it, they had reached their destination. McCoy froze in front of the door.  
  
Spock regarded him. "Leonard?"  
  
"Did it just hit you that we're actually doing this?"  
  
"No, I have been aware of that fact since I arranged this meeting with the captain. I cannot understand how you would not be aware of it."  
  
"It's—" McCoy blew out his breath in a frustrated sigh, "—never mind. Lord save me from literal-minded Vulcans."  
  
And then, suddenly, the door opened, and Kirk was peering out. "I thought I heard you two out here. Are you having a good time standing in the hall?" At their continued glares at one another, he added, "Apparently not." At their continued silence, Kirk demanded, "Gentlemen, are we having dinner or aren't we? Because if we're not, I do have several duty rosters that need my approval."  
  
Spock slowly turned to Kirk. "We have something to discuss with you, Sir."  
  
"So I gathered," Kirk murmured wryly.  
  
The three of them filed into the captain's cabin, and McCoy shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, very aware of the thin ice they were skating on. This all had to be done very delicately so as not to—  
  
"The doctor and I were bonded on the planet, Sir," Spock stated.  
  
There went delicacy.  
  
Kirk blinked at them in shock, then threw his head back and laughed for several moments. Once or twice he attempted to speak, but the words were almost immediately aborted by yet another fit of laughter.  
  
Finally, Kirk's laugher slowed, and he said, "My God, Spock. Here I thought you had no sense of humor. How long have you been waiting to say that? Good God, that was one of the funniest . . ." at their looks of dead earnest, his words trailed off, and his jovial expression was replaced by one of utter shock. "You're serious."  
  
McCoy managed a "Yeah."  
  
Spock fared better and said, "Indeed. The bond, without the correct medical supervision, was, in fact, the cause of Leonard's incapacitation in the first place."  
  
Kirk seemed to be having difficulty taking it all in, not that McCoy could particularly blame him. "You called him . . . and the two of you are . . . gentlemen," he said, regaining some of his natural, authoritative tone, "I think you can appreciate my shock."  
  
That forced a bark of laughter out of McCoy before he could stop it. "Jim," he stated, "you have no idea."  
  
That got a slight smile on the captain's face, even if it was rather rueful. "So, do you love each other?" he asked, looking slightly worried about stepping on toes.  
  
"Yeah," McCoy told him. "Took a long time getting there, but yeah."  
  
Kirk glanced at Spock, silently asking him the same question.  
  
Spock merely nodded, but that was enough.  
  
And, slowly, a grin broke over Jim Kirk's face. "Well then, Spock, Bones, you'll forgive me for saying it, but it took you long enough!"  
  
McCoy felt a grin spread over his own face.  
  
For the first time in what seemed like an eon, things were looking up.

. . . . . . . . .   
  
McCoy poured a glass of bourbon and offered it to the Vulcan currently standing awkwardly in the middle of his quarters.  
  
"No, thank you, Leonard. I don't drink."  
  
McCoy poured a little more in the glass and carried it with him to his couch. "Now, that's something we're gonna have to work on. Can't have a proper wedding without champagne." He grinned deviously, adding, "Not to mention a proper bachelor party."  
  
"You wish to be married, then?" Spock asked, still looking surprisingly stiff.  
  
McCoy scowled. "Didn't know you'd—would you damn well sit down? You're giving me the jitters just looking at you—act like it was some sort of death sentence."  
  
Spock crossed the room and sat next to him. "It is not a death sentence, Leonard. I just think that shipboard relationships are often inadvisable."  
  
"So you want to carry on the good stuff without the commitment? Is that it?" McCoy snapped, not liking where this was heading one bit. "Live our lives unofficially sort-of married, but not going the whole way?"  
  
"On Vulcan, we are officially married," Spock pointed out.  
  
To cover up the pain rapidly spreading throughout his system, McCoy crossed his arms, growling, "And now you're having great big second thoughts about that one, aren't you?"  
  
"I am not," Spock said, in a surprisingly sharp tone. Then, much more quietly, he added, "My parents may, however."  
  
McCoy faltered at that.  
  
Sarek.  
  
Not exactly a man Leonard McCoy ever wanted to cross the wrong way.  
  
Sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose, he said, "Listen, Spock, if you're really not wanting to do this, I'm sure there's some way that we could—"  
  
Then, to his great surprise, Spock leaned over and kissed him.  
  
"I wish nothing more than to marry you, Leonard McCoy," he stated very deliberately. "But we also must consider the potential ramifications such an act would inevitably bring about. A bond between two people of the same sex is not unheard of in Vulcan culture, but to add to that idiosyncrasy the fact that one of us is human and the other only half-Vulcan." He shrugged eloquently. "It is not something that shall be looked upon favorably."  
  
"Spock, are you planning on moving to Vulcan any time soon?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Good. Neither am I." Reaching out and pressing his index and middle finger to Spock's, McCoy said, "At this moment, I'm not thinking about how Vulcan, human, or any other society is going to look on us. I love you, and that's God's honest truth."  
  
"As I love you," Spock murmured, glancing down at their fingers.  
  
"Good to know." McCoy used his other hand to tip Spock's chin up to look at him. "Spock, the other stuff's important, and Lord knows it's not going to be sunshine and roses convincing everyone that this thing between us is okay. But we'll burn those bridges when we come to them." He shrugged. "I don't honestly see how else we can play this."  
  
Spock nodded. "I do not wish to admit it, but what you say is quite . . . logical."  
  
"Damn straight." Then, slowly, a mischievous grin spread across McCoy's face. "Now, Spock, Honey, I do believe you've had a ravishing coming your way for a while now." As Spock's eyebrows both shot up, McCoy's smile grew. "Care to give this thing between us a whirl?"  
  
Then, to McCoy's delight, Spock smiled back at him. True it was that tiny, smug little Vulcan smile of his, but dammit, it was still a smile. "That, Doctor, is the best idea you've had all week."  
  
As McCoy kissed Spock and his hands began to wander south, he mused that the mission on Harmaggeidon, for all the hell and nausea it had caused, hadn't turned out half-bad, after all.  
  
Maybe their next vacation could include beaches and little drinks with tiny umbrellas, though.

. . . . .

. . . .

. . .

. .

.  
  
And then, there was the end.


End file.
